The chandeliers in the penthouse glittered like frozen lightning over Manhattan. Outside, the skyline pulsed with money and ambition. Inside, two men stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, comparing reflections.
One was Donald Trump, adjusting his tie as if the city were an audience waiting for applause.
The other was Patrick Bateman, immaculate in a razor-cut suit, his smile polished to a Wall Street sheen.
“You know, Patrick,” Trump said, gesturing at the skyline, “people talk about numbers. Ratings. Poll numbers. Net worth. Nobody has numbers like me. The best numbers.”
Bateman’s eyes glinted with sterile enthusiasm. “I appreciate metrics,” he replied smoothly. “Excellence is measurable. Business cards. Restaurant reservations. Mergers. Acquisitions.” He paused. “And, of course… body count.”
Trump turned slowly. “Body count? You mean—political victories, right? Campaign rallies? Massive crowds. Huge.”
Bateman’s smile widened just slightly too far. “Something like that.”
From across the room, the doors flew open.
Melania Trump stepped in, statuesque and composed—at least at first. She had overheard enough to piece together the theme of the conversation.
“Donald,” she said, her accent cutting through the air like crystal. “Why are you discussing body count with this… banker?”
Bateman offered a courteous nod. “Investment banker.”
Melania’s gaze flicked between them. “I hear numbers. Big numbers. What numbers?”
Trump puffed up. “Sweetheart, we’re talking about dominance. Winning. Total dominance. Nobody dominates like me.”
Bateman leaned casually against the marble console. “Dominance is about control,” he said, almost dreamily. “About eliminating competition.”
Melania’s eyes widened. “Eliminating?”
A tense silence stretched across the marble floors.
Trump waved his hands. “He means business competition. Corporate stuff. Totally legal. Tremendous. The best eliminations.”
Bateman’s stare drifted toward the city lights, his reflection doubling in the glass. “Of course,” he said, tone perfectly neutral. “Hostile takeovers.”
Melania folded her arms. “Because when I hear ‘body count,’ I do not think business. I think headlines. I think prison.”
Trump cleared his throat. “Nobody’s going to prison. Especially not me. Believe me.”
Bateman stepped closer, lowering his voice as if confiding in both of them. “In New York, reputations are everything. The trick is to keep your numbers impressive… but abstract.”
Melania shook her head. “You two are impossible. Always competing. Who has more towers. Who has more followers. Now—who has more body count?”
Trump bristled. “It’s a metaphor!”
Bateman smiled faintly. “Sometimes.”
The chandelier flickered. For a moment, Bateman’s reflection seemed to lag behind him, like a separate entity calculating risks. Trump stared at his own reflection, checking for flaws.
Melania stepped between them.
“I don’t care about your numbers,” she said sharply. “I care about survival. In this city, in this world, you don’t win by counting bodies. You win by staying out of the obituary section.”
Bateman adjusted his cufflinks. “A wise investment strategy.”
Trump nodded quickly. “Very smart. Always thinking ahead. That’s why she married me.”
Melania shot him a look.
Outside, sirens wailed somewhere far below—just ordinary Manhattan noise. Or maybe not.
Bateman straightened his jacket. “Gentlemen—” he corrected himself, glancing at Melania. “And lady. I have a reservation at Dorsia.”
Trump blinked. “Nobody gets reservations at Dorsia.”
Bateman’s smile returned, calm and chilling. “I do.”
He walked out, leaving only the faint scent of cologne and something metallic in the air.
Trump exhaled. “Strange guy.”
Melania stared at the closed door. “Donald… next time you compare numbers, make sure they are only poll numbers.”
Trump nodded. “The best poll numbers.”
But as the skyline shimmered outside, even he seemed uncertain which kind of “body count” had truly been under discussion—and whether some competitions were better left unmeasured.
