Imagine calling Patrick Bateman out to his face and telling him the only thing he’s ever truly done is get born into a wealthy family.
Silver spoon in his mouth from the moment he took his first breath. No real achievements, no grit, no substance—just luck dressed up as merit. He’d lose it. That cold, composed mask would crack instantly, and something almost homicidal would flash in his eyes.
“Oh, yeah? You’re so fucking smart now?” he’d sneer, voice low and venomous. “You let me fuck you raw and now you want to lecture me about morals?”
But inside, he’d be raging. Because deep down, he knows you’re right. Your words would scrape against that hollow void he spends every waking moment trying to fill with designer suits, expensive watches, and meaningless status. His ego would be bleeding.
How dare you—a nobody who doesn’t own a Rolex, who doesn’t live in the right building on the Upper East Side—point it out? He’s a Wall Street golden boy. Old money. Powerful. You’re supposed to be nothing but a toy to him.
And yet here you are, standing in front of him, completely sure of who you are… while he has no idea who he is without the money, the clothes, and the reputation.
“You’re so delusional, Patrick,” you’d say softly, almost pitying. “And I really do feel sorry for you.”
His face would flush red, nostrils flaring, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. His voice would drop to a dangerous whisper:
You wouldn’t even flinch.
Because you actually mean it.