Call Me | American Psycho Reader Insert

The End

Y/N stared at the man across from him, his heart racing like a caged animal in his chest. This couldn't be right. The last time he saw Paul Allen, he'd left him in a dark alley, a bloody mess that would have surely meant the end of him. Yet here he was, standing before Y/N in a dingy prison cell, looking surprisingly alive and well. The concrete walls closed in around him, the stale air thick with disbelief.

Paul Allen looked at Y/N with a smirk that sent a chill down his spine. He knew that smile, had seen it a hundred times before in the mirror. But it was the eyes that gave him away, those cold, unfeeling eyes that had once stared back at him in the throes of his own madness. How could this be? Had he hallucinated the murder? The details were vivid, the blood too real.

"You look surprised," Paul said, his voice a twisted echo of the man Y/N knew. "I can't say I blame you, though."

Y/N felt the bile rise in his throat as he took in the reality of the situation. His mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle that lay before him. How could this be? Was it a twisted game played by his own fractured psyche, a manifestation of his guilt? Or had he been set up so masterfully that even he didn't know the truth? He studied Paul's features, looking for signs of decay, for some hint of the ordeal he had put him through, but found none. The man was as clean-shaven and well-groomed as ever, his designer clothes unblemished by the grime of a prison laundry.

"What's going on?" Y/N managed to choke out, his voice a hoarse whisper. "How are you...?"

Paul's smirk grew wider, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic delight that only served to fuel Y/N's confusion and fear. "Let's just say I had some connections," he replied, his tone smug and self-satisfied. "But that's not what you're really worried about, is it? You're worried about how I know who you really are."

Y/N's head spun as he tried to recall the events of that fateful night. The whiskey-soaked haze of the murder had never fully lifted, leaving him with only fragments of memories. Yet here was Paul, standing before him, speaking as if he knew everything.

"You see, Y/N, I've always known there was something off about you," Paul continued, pacing the confines of the cell with a predatory grace. "The way you'd watch people, the little smiles that didn't quite reach your eyes. It was all so... telling."

Y/N felt his palms slick with sweat, his grip on reality slipping. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice shakier than he'd have liked. "You're dead. I killed you."

Paul chuckled, a sound that scraped against Y/N's sanity like nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, did you now?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against Y/N's face. "Tell me, do you remember the night at the Alley? The night you thought you ended me?"

Y/N's eyes narrowed, trying to recall the events of that evening. The dimly lit club, the thump of bass, the sickly sweet scent of alcohol and desperation. Yes, he remembered. He remembered the rage that had consumed him when he realized that Paul had stolen the business deal, the deal that was supposed to be the pinnacle of his success. He remembered the letter opener, the screams, the crimson spatter. But here was Paul, standing before him, a living, breathing contradiction.

Paul's laughter grew louder, echoing off the cold, unforgiving walls. "The man you killed was an imposter," he said, his voice a symphony of amusement. "Some poor soul I picked up off the street. Dressed him in my clothes, gave him a few of my mannerisms, and voilà, the perfect patsy."

Y/N's knees buckled, and he had to steady himself against the bars. The implications were too much to bear. If this was true, then he'd killed an innocent man in a fit of rage over a misguided sense of entitlement. The gravity of his actions settled upon him like a lead weight, crushing the air from his lungs. "Why?" he croaked, his eyes never leaving Paul's.

Paul leaned back, his grin widening like a chasm. "Because, my dear Y/N, I knew you were a killer," he said, his words dripping with glee. "You've always had that...look about you. And when the opportunity presented itself, I simply had to see if my suspicions were correct. And boy, did you deliver."

The room spun around Y/N as he tried to comprehend what he was hearing. He'd killed a man, a man whose face he'd only imagined to be Paul's. The horror of the revelation crashed over him like a tidal wave. "But how?" he whispered, the question barely audible.

Paul leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It was simple, really. I knew you'd eventually snap, so I set the stage. A little misdirection here, a sprinkle of your jealousy there, and before you knew it, you were playing right into my hands." He paused, savoring the moment. "You see, I knew you'd be too far gone to notice the differences. The real me is out there, living my best life, while you're stuck here, sharing a cell with the ghost of my past."

Y/N's fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The rage bubbled up inside him like lava, threatening to consume him whole. "Why would you do this to me?" he roared, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

Paul leaned back, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Why, for the same reason you did what you did to that poor man," he said, his voice a sibilant hiss. "For the thrill of it. For the power. And now, my dear Y/N, the tables have turned. You're the one who's trapped, and I'm the one who gets to watch you squirm."

The rage inside Y/N grew, a fiery beast demanding to be set free. "You son of a bitch," he spat.

Paul's smirk grew even more pronounced. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it," he said, his voice a purr of satisfaction. "You're the one behind bars, not me. And as for Evelyn," his eyes glinted, "I think she'll be quite delighted to see me again. After all, she never knew the real me, did she?"

Y/N's fury boiled over, and he lunged at the bars, his hands wrapping around the cold metal. "You stay away from her," he snarled, his teeth bared. "You don't deserve to even breathe the same air as her."

Paul took a step back, his smirk never wavering. "Ah, so protective," he said, his eyes dancing with malice. "But you see, she's always been mine. You were just a temporary diversion."

Y/N's vision swam with rage as he clung to the bars, his knuckles white from the pressure. "I'll kill you," he ground out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Paul chuckled, the sound echoing through the cell like a taunt. "Good luck with that," he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "But for now, I think I'll leave you to your thoughts. You know, the ones that will keep you company in here."

Y/N watched him go, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white. The guard escorted Paul out with a nod, the door slamming shut with a finality that made Y/N's stomach drop. He was alone again, the weight of his own madness pressing down on him like a ton of bricks. He had to get out of here. He had to find a way to clear his name, to expose the twisted game Paul had played.

The End