UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

INTRO I: HOW IT ALL BEGAN

INTRO I: HOW IT ALL BEGAN

THE DEVIL

Deliberate, slow, and silent. I exhale, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. The faint yellow glow from the single lampshade barely cuts through the vast space, but it highlights Heunice stabbing a fruit knife into Fritz's other thigh. Sound pierces. Cries and gasps of Fritz echo, making the night insects outside seem like a deafening chorus.

Gagged mouth; nostrils sealed with duct tape; Fritz is drenched in sweat, tied at the wrists and ankles to a chair.

Heunice's back is turned to me, dressed entirely in black—a baseball cap, tactical pants, and shirt. A face mask covers his mouth and jaw.

The death itself crouches before Fritz, holding a piece of paper.

A wry smile escapes me; Newsbreak: Fritz Fabian, philanthropist and son of Frederick Fabian—founder of Fabian Global—was found tortured and dead in his historic manor in Lac de Maine, Angers.

Probably most neurotypical people would say: only psychopaths could do that. They lack empathy, kill, mutilate, torture, blah... blah... without remorse. In short, criminals.

One moment, they are just normal people; the next, they become forensic behavioural experts. Can't blame them. The media stirs public interest at the cost of accuracy.

Well, I know better. One out of twenty successful surgeons is a psychopath. Not to mention that many are CEOs; I am one of them.

Sure, I nearly killed someone at nineteen. But my former nanny, Luisa, stopped me and pushed me to a psychiatrist. Doctors called it ASPD and a few others. Tests, and then therapy—I became more self-aware and crafted a perfect mask to blend in.

So, yeah—not all psychopaths are criminals.

I am not a criminal. Been reminding myself of that ever since.

Until now.

"What now, old man?" Heunice asks, his voice calm. "Last chance. Sign this will, or I'll pull your guts out of that fat belly and kill you. For real."

"You f*cking psycho!" Eyes wide, chest heaving, Fritz's voice reverberates as soon as Heunice removes the gag. "You hadn't shown up until now. I didn't even know you were alive since your psycho mother vanished to hide you!"

I blink. My eyelid twitches.

"Now you're here? Asking for money? I should've gotten rid of you and your brother! If it wasn't—"

Heunice moves at lightning speed as he stands, a contrast to the slow descent of the paper, floating gently before settling silently on the floor.

Therapeutic, almost—not the paper, but the swift motion of Heunice's hands toward Fritz: one grabs his hair; the other clamps over his mouth.

"If it wasn't what? What do you mean?" Only questions. Heavy and sharp. Heunice's voice is enough to cut Fritz's life in an instant. Fascinating. "Maybe you mean, if you weren't a womanizer, but actually you're a f*cking pedo.

"Bet you did it to my little brother, huh. Lucky for me, I wasn't the one you took from Mom. And FYI, I wouldn't be here if I weren't desperate for money. I wouldn't have known any of this. You make me sick! My poor little brother, abused by his father and the b*tch he thinks is his real mother."

It's Serene. It has to be. What a snake. She kept telling me that Fritz hates me and loves my half-brother, Jean.

As if I care. First, I have patience for people who don't deserve my attention. Second, that snake, with all her dramatics (bipolar, my ass), still thought she could manipulate me. Third, I chose to believe her lies about Jean; he's not my half-brother.

Maybe I should call her, make her listen to this: 'Hey, Mom—or Stepmom (since I didn't know you weren't my real mother until now... thanks to Heunice), want to hear Dad scream before he dies tonight?'

'Oh no, Son, what have you done? Oh, God, this is so bad... this is really, really bad. You're such a bad boy, do you know that?'

Ah, she wouldn't dare call the police. No one would ever believe her. It's her words against mine.

My hand is halfway to my pocket, ready to pull out my phone, but I stop—Fritz gasps violently. His eyes roll back. Heunice nearly kills him simply by covering his mouth.

Rewarding.

"Newsflash, you sickf*ck," Heunice goes on, "I know you only married her and hired expensive escorts to hide your dirty secrets. Maybe I should kill her, too—what's her name again? Selena? Serene?"

Fritz's eyes widen.

"Yeah," Heunice lets out soft chuckles, mocking yet controlled. "I'm going to kill her, so don't you dare test my f*cking patience! I'm not as patient as my little brother. Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't killed you yet." His chest rises, jaw tightens. He looks up to the ceiling, trying to stay patient as Fritz struggles for breath. "Anyway, you see, my mind's more twisted than his. I don't have the luxury of therapy. It's a waste of money, and I need money now, for real! I'm your son, too."

Heunice sighs, then removes his hand from Fritz's mouth, giving him one second to gasp before pressing his hand down harder. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Only gasps answer him.

"What?" Heunice sounds puzzled. And I scoff in silence. "F*ck! Why can't you speak clearly? Just sign the will, and we'll never have to deal with each other again. I promise, for real." Teeth clenched. Breathing heavier. Heunice holds back from uncovering Fritz's mouth.

And I count: One. Two. Three. Fritz's eyes turn white. By the time I reach ten, just before Fritz's eyes close, Heunice finally removes his hand. Fritz takes a heavy, shuddering breath.

Eyes narrow. Arms cross over my chest. I was exposed to the same thing back in the day. Over and over. Same chair. Same room. Same place—this manor. The place where I grew up, where the memories my father gave me still rot. My innocence... taken at eight. Physical. Almost s****l.

The Devil, Fritz used to call me.

Yeah, can't argue with that. I was the Devil long before the beatings. Father didn't make me a devil; I was born a devil.

After all, psychopaths aren't made—they're born.

Poor Fritz. He let his sons—yes, sons; I only learned of my twin tonight—live long enough for one to fit the name: The Devil, who will, in a sense, kill his own father.

I reach for the feeling people call misery. Nothing comes, of course. Only the faint awareness that I should be feeling something.

And I utter a chuckle.

Finally, Heunice turns—not toward me at first, but prompted by finding the paper he'd dropped earlier. He doesn't pick up the paper. Instead, he pulls his facemask down his chin.

I expect him to overlook me, but he pauses, staring with dead eyes. I stare back. Smile even, but it ends up half-formed. He takes five steps. Calm, calculated. One more step, he stops before me. His eyes glint—pleased, not surprised.

Up close. Only now. I see his face and physique. Surreal yet so real.

Heunice. A mirror image. The height, the build—identical. Even our voices match. Eyes. Hair. The same light brown—almost. His left pupil, the outer third, appears light green—grey or blue—under the lamp; on his forehead, beneath the cap, clumps of white hair. Visible. Thick. Silvery.

Fascinating.

Can't see what my eyes look like right now, but my heartbeat rises—an indication that they aren't lifeless.

He puts the facemask back on—a subtle withdrawal. "Hugo. Wow... look at you. How much does that suit cost? You look expensive. You make me proud, little brother, for real." Voice lively, arms wide—as if inviting rapport.

He engages me with inconsistencies. Nice tactic, Heunice. I'll give you that.

"Little brother, for real," I echo flatly, testing whether he can read me between the lines.

"Hugo! Son, help me!"

Only a background; neither of us takes notice. Too busy reading, testing—measuring each other. Ah, if only Heunice had known I was done, right after I mirrored his speech pattern—with his abrupt pauses and the quick flick of his brow a while back... his eyes said, 'I know what you're doing, little brother.'

"Uh, yeah?" Heunice replies instead, still animated, performative—predictable. "I was born just thirty minutes ahead of you."

I nod, secretly amused.

"Hugo! Please!"

Head turns to Fritz. Heunice's expression changes instantly. Jaw tight. Eyes go lifeless. Then walks away. Each step heavy, unwavering. Fritz flinches—as if searching for escape.

"Beg more." Heunice yanks Fritz's head up by the hair, forcing him to look at me. "Then tell Hugo, your f*cking son, that you're sorry for everything—for abusing him, for molesting him. Sorry that you're a pedo. Sorry that you like molesting young boys. Sorry that you're a sick f*ck who can't keep his d*ck away from their mouths and their asses even for a day. Tell him the exact words." Heunice stares at me while he says it.

I stare back.

Clear. Certain. Heunice's eyes say: Fritz dies tonight. If you want to save him, now is the time.

I could—act like a normal person would.

But no. I can be normal or not normal, good or bad—if I choose to. It's always a matter of choice. I chose not to be, hours ago. Doesn't mean my disorders caused it—diagnoses explain tendencies, not decisions.

Saving Fritz gives me nothing—though something else is to gain here, a possibility I am still considering.

"I'm sorry." Fritz's voice cracks, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I—"

One quick motion—Heunice stabs Fritz beneath the chin.

And then, silence.

Even the nighttime insects stop, as if giving me time to find emotion.

But as I stare into Fritz's wide, empty eyes... as Heunice pulls the knife out, sending a torrent of blood across the floor... I fail. Only a dopamine hit, realizing that he died tragically.

"Told you to say the exact words." Heunice inspects the corpse's hanging head. "F*cking moron."

He sighs, glances at me, and lowers the facemask again. "Why are you here? You aren't supposed to be here, little brother."

A laugh fails to escape me. He's pretending, obviously. He wanted me to follow Fritz so I'd see and hear everything. "I was about to head home," I say. Not a lie; he wants to play, I'll play. "Someone wanted to meet me in the company parking lot, my assistant texted."

Probably not my assistant at all. Heunice likely stole her phone.

"That's when I saw him," I nod toward the corpse. "Trying to open his car. It swung open. A gun showed up. He raised his hands. I was curious, so I followed."

"F*ck! F*ck! F*ck!" Heunice blurts a strong expletive and stares up at the ceiling. Thinking. Acting. Performing.

Good thing I am entertained, especially when his gaze drops to the paper.

"F*ck!" Massaging his temple with the bony outer edge of his wrist, still holding the bloody knife he'd plunged into Fritz, he asks the dumbest question I've ever heard, "I hadn't gotten him to sign the will, had I?"

I shrug and give him a genuine smile; he deserves it, using a blank piece of paper as a prop. And the way he acts... so casual, as if he hadn't just killed a human being. He is definitely more twisted than I am.

"I should kill you." No hesitation, voice flat. Heunice stands, pulls a rag from his back pocket, and wipes the knife.

He deserves more, so I smirk.

"But since you're my little brother," he continues, still focused on cleaning his knife, "and I love you, I won't. Just give me five million dollars, and I'll get out of your way."

"What do you need it for?"

He glances up at me, knife swinging casually. "My office..." He groans, shaking his head. "My fortress in LA—raided by the FBI. They took everything, especially my software. I need it for my work," his glance flicks to Fritz's corpse, "and now I don't have money to start over. All those years, all my work, gone. If I had enough, I wouldn't have wasted time on him."

I force a blink. No surprise, Heunice knows it all—he's a hacker. Maybe he's bluffing, but I doubt it. He hadn't shown up or made a sound for thirty-four years. He should have come to me sooner if it were just about money. That would make sense.

"You're a wanted man," I declare.

A slow, odd smile spreads across his face. "No. But technically, yes. They don't know my name or my face. I've done this for a decade and a half and never been caught. They still have no clue who I am."

Ah, been waiting for this since I followed Fritz—something Heunice can offer for the long term. For a lifetime, even. Heunice had this in mind from the very beginning.

And he's going to give it to me.

"If you doubt me, check my background." He strolls and grabs the pack of cigarettes on the bed. "If you can find anything."

I stay silent. If he were planning something against me, I'd have already turned the tables. He miscalculated.

We'll use each other, but I will ensure I get the bigger share.

For now, Serene is my target. She's been messing with me—and now I am entertained. Time to return the favor—and I need Heunice's skills to do it.

"Work for me, and I'll give you everything you need," I say, sounding warm.

Ah, the smirk on Heunice's face as he lights the cigarette between his lips... admirable. "Anything you need," he says, taking a puff. "That's how much I love you, my little brother."

Too easy.

"So, how do you clean up this mess?" I ask—not out of curiosity, but to test him.

"I'm a professional. You think I don't plan?" Smoke blurs his face. "He was buying young boys on the dark web, bringing them here to do unspeakable things. I have proof.

"There's a teenage boy in his car, still high on drugs. He kept dosing him while working in his office. I'll make it look like a vigilante rescued the boy. Don't worry, the boy will be okay. I'll clean the entire property so there's no DNA of ours left here."

Heunice sounds concerned about the boy. I don't care about those boys. Still, my head shakes as I stare at Fritz.

Sure—I'm the Devil. If I am the devil, what does that make him?

_____

I was born a devil, long before my father's hands tried to prove it. Heunice killed him tonight, but the truth is—we both did. In this house, monsters don't die; they only find new mirrors

–Hugo

_____