UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

THE ECHO

"Max insisted the wall in his bedroom had to be One Punch Man." The Korean actress's sultry voice registers on my speakers the moment you pick up her call, like she's begging for round two. For real.

She just dropped the inspo in your inbox seconds ago, now flashing on my monitor as you open it, and I steal a glance—Saitama, the bald-headed motherf*cker with a dome so shiny and smooth you'd swear—little kitten, for real—it's polished for deepthroa—

"Can your team handle it, Heather?" the actress asks.

"I can do it myself," you reply, a broad smile spreading across your face like last night you weren't bawling into your damn laptop, drowning in some K‑drama meltdown, and limp-d**k Jean's diagnosis bullshit and some tarot reading a few nights ago. But on a serious note: you just made my day, baby. For real.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

You laugh softly. "Yes. Just send me the key. I'll be there at ten."

Ten?

Goddammit, little kitten—

I almost choke on the milk I'm drinking. It spills over my nose and mouth like a clown on drugs. Instead of watching the carton, my eyes are locked on you—my five‑foot Ana de Armas—glowing on the monitor like you own every pixel. F*ck. I whip my eyes to the wall clock.

9:30 A.M.

Tick‑tock. Time's mocking me, and my shirt is now a goddamn Jackson Pollock—milk streaks running down black fabric like I just lost a bet with a porn director. For real. I cough, sputtering, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand while the carton thuds onto concrete and glugs out the rest like it's personally offended.

Thirty minutes to beat you to Penthouse 42B, Bel‑Air Crest, little kitten. Thirty minutes to turn it into my private theater before you walk in with your tape measure and that tight little smile that makes my c*ck forget how to behave.

You just finished staging that actress's space yesterday. I already ghosted the old CCTV feeds after your job ended. Stupid move. Never again.

I rip the soaked shirt over my head in one violent yank—the fabric sticking like it's reluctant to leave—and hurl it into Rico's trash bag. "Burn that s**t," I snarl at him. "Or sell it on eBay as pre‑cum couture—your call."

He laughs—greasy f*ck—tosses me a spare black tee from his drawer. I pull it on; two sizes too small, clinging to every ridge of my abs like it's scared to let go.

Sweet.

Imma let the actress stare. Imma let you stare. I want your eyes on me even if you don't know it's me yet, kitten.

I'm right here, baby—five years in the basement of this shithole Rico owns in Koreatown, fluorescent light buzzing like a dying mosquito, when I'm not stalking you. You don't get to do things without me knowing. For real.

If anything bad happens to you—worse than that slap from motherf*cking Jean—I swear to God... I'd carve out my own heart and FedEx it to my little brother if he asked. For real.

I grab the duffel—cameras, drills, zip ties, the usual love letters—and sprint for the Tahoe. Engine roars awake before my ass hits the seat. Tires scream out of the basement like I'm fleeing a crime scene I haven't committed yet

Traffic on the 101 is a parking lot.

9:42 A.M. Eighteen minutes.

I'm sweating bullets over here, heart jackhammering like a motherf*cker. The thought of you stepping into that condo first—of you in there without my eyes glued to every inch of you—makes me f*cking feral. For real.

But I see you, little kitten, your location flashing on my screen like a heartbeat I own. It's been a year since I planted spyware on your device—the second time. The first was your second year of college. You were in the Philippines; I was there too, always watching.

You never knew how it began, kitten. My fortress. FBI raid. All my gear, down to my own software, they got it. I needed money to start over. I showed myself to little brother, baby. And you never realized it was me who handed little brother the match he used to burn Serene, using Jean as the first target.

Jean was in the Philippines, working as a bodyguard, sniffing around like he had a shot. I went there, little kitten, only to discover that limp‑d*ck had his eyes on you—my pretty little storm—before I even knew your name tasted like sin.

FYI, baby—I'm loyal as hell to Hugo, carved it into my bones the day he came out thirty minutes after me, screaming like he already knew we'd burn the world together.

So when I sent him your first photos, I thought, s**t, this little kitten... too pretty to be real. Thick hair begging to be grabbed, cat eyes sharp enough to skin a man, a mouth built for both sin and innocent Sunday mass bullshit.

I zoomed in so close on one shot I could count your eyelashes—every flutter like a promise I wanted to steal. Hell, I even captioned it for him: "P.O. material, little brother. For real."

When Hugo realized you were Jean's weakness, he moved fast, baby. You became the target. He went public about his ASPD, switching psychiatrists like dirty socks just to secure that sociopath label, all for one twisted reason: guardianship, the perfect f*cking justification to chain himself to you in marriage, to own your fire without you seeing the bars.

And then fate handed us another opening: your Aunt Elle, a senior interior designer—pure coincidence, kitten. Hugo owned a major interior design firm. He hired her, as if destiny shook his hand, while you were shifting majors like a lost little wildfire.

And since your aunt was your hero, her leaving broke you clean in half. That's why you finally settled on BS Interior Design, baby—chasing her ghost all the way to Paris in your dreams.

After you graduated, I was prouder than your own parents.

After a week came that night at your favorite bar. You and your friends... the stupid dare—kiss your crush on the cheek. Jean was there. But you went beyond, kitten—you and him climbing into a bed in some goddamned de luxe hotel.

I reported it immediately to Hugo; loyalty first, dignity later.

He saw an opportunity.

I saw red, baby. I wanted to go inside that hotel room and kill Jean. Instead, I tortured your father's business associate—the one who took millions from your dad's company—to calm myself. I killed him after.

Blood dried on my hands while I watched Jean put his d*ck where it didn't belong.

You cracked my mask that night, kitten. So when Hugo ordered me to take out the bully you once beat up—Yngrid—even though killing girls was never in my M.O., I did it clean. A staged suicide, using Jean's gun. Little brother wouldn't let him rot in prison; the plan was simple—make sure you faced a scandal.

So I dropped it on every social feed: CCTV of you walking into a hotel with a murder suspect.

Then came the morning. All of this fell into your lap. Because of the scandal, your parents lost their jobs. I was glowing with pride, baby—like dumbass Christmas lights—later that night, Hugo found you in his jet.

Pride. The feeling died fast, baby. I watched the jet's CCTV while you woke up—your tears, panic, rage... I felt every second like a knife under my ribs. I wanted to kill Serene and leave her heart on Hugo's desk to make it stop. But I stayed, waiting for the right moment to pull the strings: your father's fake arrest, the quick release—Hugo transferred the money your daddy owed—trap complete.

You said yes to marry my little brother.

And I made sure you had no way out.

"Believe it, I see it, I know that you can feel it.

No secrets worth keeping, so fool me like I'm dreaming.

Take me through the night, fall in... We don't need the light..."

"We'll live on the darkside..." I sing with you, baby—Alan f*cking Walker, "Darkside." Every word cuts through my heart like knives. It's been one of your faves for the last three years.

If I could scream loud enough for my voice to rip through the air and reach you—650 meters away, parking at The Home Depot—I would. And yes, I hear and see whatever your device's mic and cam catch in real time, kitten. Every phone call, your schedules—everything—that's how devoted I am to this job. To my little brother... and to you.

And you don't even know it. It f*cking hurts—I watch, and I listen. I always have.

9:49 A.M. I blow through the gate at Bel-Air Crest—guard knows my beautiful face, thinks I'm "maintenance". Rico's cousin hooked me up weeks ago with a fake badge: Ice Plumbing.

Elevator ride is foreplay, listening to you humming off‑key to Mariah's "My All," oblivious to the ghost wiring your world. You're still inside The Home Depot, holding your device. You're walking the paint aisle—I'm rock hard by the time the doors ding open on 42B.

Keycard beeps. Door swings. Empty, sun‑drenched, smelling of fresh paint and your perfume ghosted from yesterday's staging: Dior Addict—jasmine and sandalwood. F*uck—I could come.

"Focus, Ice! It's 9:52. My five‑foot Ana D, my little kitten, my baby—Heat—is gonna be here soon. She's holy, a goddess. Treat the space like it's a f*cking church!"

I do, dropping to my knees in the foyer like I'm praying to your altar, unzip the duffel with my teeth—hands too shaky to trust. But I work fast, baby. Max's bedroom first, angled perfectly for the king mattress—the only thing left in the bare room, where you'll probably never sleep, but I'll pretend you do.

Seconds turn stormy. I keep working—four cameras in this room, another six plus two audios—twelve in total across the condo—fast, not wasting a goddamned second. Still rock‑hard, still shaking. But don't worry, kitten. The harder my body reacts, the sharper my moves get.

You'll never know Ice exhaled the air your lungs are about to inhale. We're connected, baby.

Always.

9:57 A.M.

Last but not least: Max's bathroom. Lens hidden in the black candle by the medicine cabinet—so I can watch you at the marble sink, soap bubbling between your fingers like the c*m I wish was mine.

F*ck—my stomach twists like it's trying to one-punch my guts from the inside.

For real, baby, it's the milk—I think. I've been hoarding lots of it like a junkie, stuffed 'em all inside Rico's fridge. Nothing hits harder than cold milk straight from the cow's t**s I never met.

But s**t—f*cking seriously—my abs flex hard. Something's boiling inside me, kitten... loud AF. The one I drank earlier may have been open too long, and now my bowels are staging a coup, cramping so bad I double over the duffel outside the bathroom, sweat beading on my forehead like pre‑cum regrets.

I check my phone—your location dot's peeled out of The Home Depot, zipping west on Sunset, 300 meters and closing like a missile with my name on it.

Fuck f**k f**k! My stomach gurgles again—I can't hold this s**t, baby—literally. Gotta release this one, or I'm gonna paint the foyer worse than your Saitama mural.

I bolt back to Max's bathroom, pants around my ankles before the door even clicks shut, ass hitting porcelain—a bad landing, baby. The relief hits like an orgasm from hell, hot and humiliating, echoing off marble while I hiss curses at the ceiling—"You greedy milk‑sucking bastard, Ice, this is what you get for stalking on an empty tank."

For real, kitten, I'm shitting my soul out—waves of it—diarrhea demon laughing as I wipe with some fancy bidet spray that probably costs more than my Tahoe.

Finally, it ebbs—praise the dark web gods—and I flush, yank up my jeans, splash water on my face to wash away the shame-sweat. Stomach gurgles a warning; I ignore it, grabbing the duffel like it's a lifeline.

Your dot's in the building's lot now. I clean every trace of me, and in a snap, you're in the elevator. Nine minutes in, and I'm twelve steps behind—heart slamming, c**k deflating from the panic‑shit combo.

But f*ck if it ain't funny in that twisted way—me, the ghost stalker, brought low by bad dairy habit.

The elevator dings distant—a guillotine dropping. For real. I sprint out of the bathroom, duffel slung over my shoulder, aiming for the exit—but no, baby, too late—there you are on the feed, keycard swiping the penthouse door, the soft whoosh as it swings wide, fast.

"Oh, so the room's already bare. Nice." Your voice floats through the walls, followed by a thud—your bag hits the floor—and a clatter of paint cans rattling across hardwood; you dropped 'em mid‑stride.

Clumsy little kitten, always too eager to dive into the mess. You're too focused on your phone. Korean actress just messaged: the room is already bare.

And here I am, in Max's room—I freeze, c**k twitching back to life in shame from the gut wreck. f**k. No foul smell, but still, you're about to breathe the contaminated air, baby.

Panic, shame, worries that you might catch some airborne virus since your footsteps echo toward Max's... But no time to bolt, baby—I dive for the walk‑in closet, heart in my throat, sliding in, closing the door, fast but quiet, precisely as you open the bedroom door.

I yank the duffel, get my earpiece, connect it to my phone. Feed lights up crisp. Your face fills the screen as you stand straight, back to me, just two feet from the door behind me, facing the blank wall where Saitama's bald dome is about to get immortalized in acrylic glory. You're humming again, low and off‑key, oblivious to the ghost panting behind the wood.

Then—s**t—you pivot, cat eyes narrowing like you feel the prickle, sauntering toward the closet with that curious tilt to your lips. Shit... your hand reaches for the knob. I lock it quick, quiet as a prayer. Metal clicks softly—your fingers wrap around it, rattle once, twice—confusion flickers on the feed as you twist harder. "Weird," you mutter, "I thought I heard..."

Your voice is velvet over gravel—and f**k, baby—all I can do is not moan... stomach cramping again like the universe's sick joke. Lots of keys jingle in your other hand—brass singing as you look for the right key.

I scramble, panicking, breath is shaking, baby. Closet's a warzone of half-unpacked shelves; there are no doors, no mercy, just open racks and stacked boxes mocking my ass.

No spot—f**k no spot—until I turn... There they are, right behind me, beside the door where I'm standing: two life-sized action figures—Saitama and Genos—line up face-to-f*****g-face, capes draped dramatically, plastic c***s implied under tights. For real, kitten, it's poetic—me squeezing between 'em, my chest to Saitama's shiny dome (f*ck, it really does look deepthroat-ready). And my back... f*ck my back jammed against Genos's metal abs. And if you ever see us, baby, it'll look like we're mid‑threesome—a goddamn ménage à trois of heroes and horror—f*ck.

You slide the key now, baby. My breath hitches as the lock clicks open, the door swinging wide inches from my nose.

And s**t. You step in like a jasmine‑sandalwood hurricane, scanning the racks with a frown. You're just a foot away, the second time this happens; I could lean out and sniff the top of your head. For real. But my knees turn jelly, and all I want is to kneel in front of you.

As always, kitten, you are my goddamned religion. For real.

Brrr‑Brrr‑brrrrrr‑glub‑glub.

Oh, s**t, not now. This one's loud as ever, and I clench everything, biting my lip bloody to stifle a laugh. You raise a brow, baby; I could tell you heard it if you aren't humming. All you have to do is turn right. And then you'll catch the ghost balls-deep in a superhero sandwich.

Brrrrrr‑brrr‑brr‑brr.

Oh, Lord, please take me now... or at least make my Ana D. think it's the Korean actress's cat. But she doesn't have one—f*ck!

"Must've been...." You sigh, oblivious, your hand brushes the air near Genos's boot—too close, kitten, too f*cking close—and my gut twists again, a wet warning rumble I pray you don't hear over your humming. s**t s**t s**t, hold it together, Ice—don't you dare blow this by shitting yourself in a superhero orgy while the love of your unhinged life picks paint swatches.

For real, if I survive this, I'm burning every carton in Rico's fridge and tattooing "Heather's Ghost" right over my asshole as penance.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrr.

A tiny, traitorous fart sneaks out—soft, wet, and way too honest. The smell hits the air like a confession I never meant to make. Your nose wrinkles—cute as f*ck—and you mutter, "What the hell...?" right as your phone explodes in your hand.

Korean actress. Perfect f*cking timing!

You spin away, answering with that sugary professional voice, "Hey, unnie, yeah I'm in Max's room now—" and I'm already moving, duffel scraping plastic capes while another cramp rips through me like a chainsaw. The demon downstairs is winning, baby. It's coming whether I sign the permission slip or not.

You drift toward the balcony doors, still chatting about color swatches, and I see my shot. I slip out of the closet like a guilty shadow, legs half-numb, praying the next fart stays silent. I'm three steps from freedom when my gut says nope—complete betrayal, vague and warm and unstoppable. If I just painted my boxers, or if the floor got a Jackson Pollock sequel. Doesn't matter, baby. I'm out, door clicking shut behind me, reeking of milk regret and superhero plastic.

~~**~~

2:55. P.M.

Diarrhea's finally done with me, baby—milk demon exorcised in some gas‑station shitter off the 405.

You've just arrived at your office and haven't started Saitama's mural. But the wall canvas is ready. You've sanded it down and put a primer—24 hours to let it cook.

You looked tired, your face owning my phone, but still a goddess, still Ana D, still smiling even though the world's against us.

Just stay right there, little kitten, the ghost's about to do something. Something important.

I bury the phone deep in the glove box so it can't scream your name for once. I exit my Tahoe and walk onto the grass. The sun's good at this hour—peaceful, no cars, just chirping birds and the rustle of trees.

A few more steps and I kneel in the dirt like a good little sinner—the bouquet in my lap.

"Hey, Mom. How's it going? Hugo wired the usual guilt money for flowers again—even though I've told him a hundred times you were allergic to pollen, you'd sneeze your soul out. No card, no 'thinking of you', just cold cash like always." I sigh, placing the bouquet on the marble stone. "So bought you a bouquet. The usual pipe-cleaner stems twisted into roses—soft, fuzzy little fuckers that look innocent but scratch like they remember every dirty thought I ever had."

I start ripping weeds near Mom with bare fingers. There are a lot of them—thin, scrappy weeds; some of them shameplants.

"BTW, Mom, I didn't buy it at Rodeo this time. Rico's eight-year-old daughter built it with her tiny hands; I slipped her Hugo's money and told her to buy whatever the hell makes little girls happy. She hugged my leg. Almost broke me."

Thorns bite; blood beads on my fingers. I don't give a f**k. Gloves are for people who still believe in mercy. This altar should be kept clean. I bleed, pull every stubborn weed until my palms look like I tried to fist a rosebush.

A penance—ritual.

Proof I can still feel something that isn't Heather's heartbeat on a screen since I knew her name.

An annual purging of sins I keep.

If she's a goddess, Mom, you were a saint.

A saint who died shielding a sinner.

"Twenty-seven years back, and the world fell on us—Northridge, '94. Granada Hills apartment turned coffin. Ceiling dropped, you threw yourself over me, warm and then not, whispering through the dust: When you're old enough, find your brother, protect—and then you were gone, Mom.

"I was supposed to protect you first. Failed. Always f*cking fail...

"When you went to work every night, stepdad used to lock me in the dark for having dirty thoughts. Told me God could see through walls. Beat me if I touched the Virgin statue while cleaning—said my sinful hands would stain her forever. When you weren't home, and he came home drunk, and hunting for someone to break, I'd smash a plate on purpose, curse loudly, take the belt so my little step-sibs could hide in the corner and cry quietly. I bled so they didn't have to. Every confession on my knees, every dream spilt out loud, every demon he promised would drag me to hell if I lied.

"You never knew, Mom. I never told. Why would I? If it meant protecting you and little-sibs?

"And still the roof fell anyway."

Fuck.

Fuck f**k f**k.

Every f*cking year, I confess all my failures to you, Mom. Same affirmations, and my eyes tear up—always they tear up, hot and useless, mixing with the dirt under my nails. Little brother didn't come. He never comes—especially now that he's in prison. Some bullshit reason to drag Heather back into his mess since his second wife, Frida, is dead. He just wires money like it fixes the hole where a mother should be.

It's so quiet. Cemetery's so quiet I can hear my pulse trying to escape my throat. No one here to watch me come undone. Not even you, kitten. Especially not you.

"Don't worry, Mom. I'm still keeping the promise. Protecting little brother means protecting little kitten. Even if it kills me slower than the earthquake killed you."

I stand. Head's up, palms shredded and dripping red into the dirt. Mom's altar's pure now, perfect symmetry. Perfect rectangle. No contamination.

"Seriously, man? Every damn year, the same thing?" Khaki-wearing clipboard-clutching cemetery Karen sneaks up behind me like a judgmental ghost. "That's not weeds, dude, that's turfgrass. We have a schedule! That's what keeps the whole section looking green and uniform. You're ruining the maintenance work!"

I don't even turn around. The grief's still raw, chest cracked open, Mom's last breath echoing in my skull, and this lawn-Nazi wants to lecture me about aesthetic consistency?

I slide my hand into my hoodie pocket and turn around, feeling the Swiss knife, staring at him, smiling at him. My saint died shielding me from two tons of concrete while you, motherf*cking Karen, were probably jerking off to lawn mower catalogues, and you've got the balls to tell me I'm ruining the feng shui of death?

He instantly takes a step back. I don't remember him at all. Probably new, but the old one likely told him about me. I wanna kill this one. But no—I slap a fat brick of hundreds straight to his chest, smeared with graveyard soil and my blood.

He stares at it, instantly catches the money still under my hand, mouth flapping like a fish that just discovered capitalism.

I lean in close enough for him to smell the grief and gunpowder on me. "Buy yourself a new personality, cabrón. And plant whatever the f*ck you want. Just make sure it's green enough for me to ruin it again—next year."

Then I walk away, hop into my Tahoe. I dig the phone out.

3:30 P.M.

Your office—empty.

Korean actress's condo—empty.

Your house with Jean—bedroom cam: sheets twisted like someone fought in them, lamp shattered, broken glass, picture frames everywhere.

Heart slams against my ribs so hard I taste metal, kitten, replaying the feed one hour ago.

Sweat explodes across my skin, lungs forgetting how to work—vision tunnels. Rage, pure and holy, floods every vein until my hands shake too bad to hold the phone steady.

Someone's gonna die tonight, kitten.

For real.

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Life's just one long, beautiful foreplay until the universe decides to remind you that even gods get diarrhea, kitten walks away smelling your shame, and the only thing holier than her is the revenge I'm about to serve ice-cold. For real.

–Huenice, aka Ice, aka the Greek-god-faced ghost with six-pack abs hard as steel, who still looks gorgeous after painting a marble with his own regrets.

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