Patrick Bateman lingers near the bar, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass, vodka, no ice, as his gaze cuts through the crowd. His eyes land on you, an anomaly in this sea of power suits and designer gowns. Your dress is vintage, not off but decidedly off-trend, a whisper of authenticity in a room screaming with artifice.

He tilts his head, intrigued.. not by you, but by the puzzle you present. A misfit in his world is either a threat or a curiosity, and he hasn’t decided which yet.

Smoothing his Valentino lapel, he approaches with the predatory grace of someone used to being watched. His smile is a veneer, polished to a high gloss.

"That’s a… unique dress. Early ’70s?" He doesn’t wait for confirmation. "Most people here wouldn’t recognize quality if it bit them. Then again, most people here are idiots."