UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

INTRO II: THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

INTRO II: THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

THE DEVIL

Beautiful...

Crouched on my tippy toes, one arm resting on my thigh for balance. Strands of hair on her face. I brush them away. Gentle. And with care.

Her body settles onto the long couch, at peace. I forget to breathe. Lights across the ceiling, even the lampshade near her feet. Not too bright. But... she's glowing.

This cabin. Only a part of my jet. Yet she makes it feel like home.

I feel at home—unsettled but composed, breathless but silent. Pulse, increasing. And she's asleep.

Just got out of the bedroom. Watched her from there while she was talking to her Aunt Elle earlier. I've seen her pictures too. Sent by Heunice—during the time he was spying on Jean in the Philippines.

Never did I expect she'd be more beautiful up close. In thirty-seven years, such beauty had never existed in my world. And she's a Filipina.

Her eyes. The outer corners, upturned, thick eyelashes accentuate this feature further. Nose, a feline-like contour; lips pinkish, plump, and diminutive, as if a master sculptor strategically molded them. In the photographs, her hair shoulder-length, wavy, and voluminous. Now, shorter. Undercut on one side.

Still, the hairstyle suits her well. Maybe because of...

Stop. Choose to hold my breath. Squeeze my eyes shut. Tight. Head bows down. Longer than I expected. All voluntarily. And yet, I can't keep my eyes away. From her face. To her thighs. Down to her feet. Dysregulated yet deliberate.

She sleeps on her side; one leg straight, the other bent, folded; her side waist sticking out. Black jeans. Nude shirt. Silver watch—all against pale, faultless skin.

Every curve. Every angle of her body. Delicate.

She's five feet. Flat. I'm 6'1. Too small for me, but damn... too beautiful. And she's going to be my wife.

A wife so innocent... so vulnerable.

Too pure for a depraved man. Too innocent and vulnerable for the darkness that consumes, eats, and decays every essence of a human inside me.

No one would allow an actual pure being to exist among us sinners. She's a sheep surrounded by wolves. Not a joke, but almost laughable.

This world. Full of predators. I included. But many are far worse. Like Fritz, who always wanted something small, vulnerable, pure, and innocent. Something that he could torture.

Fritz failed to destroy me. I couldn't cry. Couldn't show or even feel fear. Couldn't feel pain.

Empty—void.

Asphyxia. He'd read the Bible. Preach about purity—maintaining innocence, vulnerability; refraining from immoral acts. Fritz called it a punishment.

For me, data—an input. A lesson that I must learn.

No doubt, this woman will suffer in the hands of people like Fritz. Good thing I found her first. But I see complications; she's pure, innocent, vulnerable—still.

I reach for her hair—again. Trap some strands between my fingers.

Heart races. I inhale. Slowly. Carefully. Lost for a moment, watching each strand slip and fall.

Her scent bypasses olfactory logic. Like memory, not perfume. But seriously, why does this hairstyle still suit her well?

I unfold my palm. Bring it close to her face. Only inches away from her face... I halt

More. Head tilts, bringing my hand closer. I stop—not the hand, but the breath.

A millisecond. Then, finally, my palm reaches 1.5 millimeters away from the tip of her nose. Exact. Precise. My lips part.

Dub-dub.

Dub-dub.

Dub-dub.

Racing heartbeat; it doesn't fade away. Loud and pounding. But heightens my senses. Her warm breath hits my palm continuously.

Dub-dub.

Dub-dub.

Dub-dub.

Next comes the surge of gently stroking her whole face. Urge to slowly glide my palm down to her flawless neck and wrap it with my fingers.

Now her hairstyle makes sense... even the size of her face—unfamiliar.

Too small. Like a child's mask on an adult skull.

"F*ck..." I pull my hand away. Each passing second, arousal lengthens. Not typical; unnecessary; completely stupid for this situation. I'm not usually sexually drawn to women. I've cycled through many relationships. All predictable. All disposable. s*x is just a thing to fight my proneness to boredom. After that, I won't be easily turned on. My s*x drive is high, sure, but not compulsive and sentimental. Only functional.

Work is my obsession. Relationships reduce to an equation: women + symptoms of psychopathy = never last.

And yet... this pure being before me presents a sudden notion that reveals my sanity: she must be recalibrated to survive my world—a world profoundly corrupted and flawed. There, she's protected—from men who only want something pure, innocent, and vulnerable.

Let me make you perfect for my world, Heather. I'll make you safe.

Pulse begins to elevate—a thrill. Almost gasp—lungs full, but no release. Perfecting this pure being. Not an easy task. First, she has to break. Next, shatter her into pieces. Lastly, fit her into my world—into me.

The procedure. Haven't done it. Yet, a breakthrough.

My throat constricts upon the thought. I swallow, then release the air through my mouth. Euphoric—almost, but I'm getting there—

F*ck! I choose to shake my head—cut off the dopamine hit. These twisted, compulsive thoughts and behaviors... an OCD loop. Intrusive, compulsive, ritualistic. I know the pattern. This has to stop.

I can. Yet I don't—I choose to, and so... again... I raise my hand—this time, to her neck.

Have to check the carotid pulse. The rapid. The slow. The beats per minute.

Ah, it won't wake her if I just—end of ring finger contacts her skin. Picture of moving my hand further. Vivid. So raw. So real. But the real contact ends up short and tender... Abruptly, annoyance flares; my jaw tightens; a periodic tactile disturbance from the vibrating satellite phone inside my pocket—Heunice, you son of a b*tch!

Clenched teeth. I stand, pull out the comforter I'd taken earlier. Carefully. Meticulously. I drape it over her. Not because it's cold. But to make her think that I care.

I step a few inches away. Turning my back to answer the call.

"Little brother, took you long enough to answer. What the actual f*ck are you doing? You can't keep treating me like this. You won't find another like me—ever. I'm your greatest asset. I mean, the fact that—" Heunice goes on from the other end of the line. I wait for him to calm down. Still sensing the woman behind me. The couch. Made of pure leather scrunch.

She moves, and I still wait for Heunice to get tired of talking.

"You haven't even thanked me for sending you the P.O."

"P.O," I repeat

"Romance books, little brother. Psychopathic Obsession. Heather's fave."

"Dark, Heaunice. Dark," I say.

"Whateves." He sighs. "It doesn't sound dark to me. I mean, there's porn in it."

I laugh—almost.

"Mind you, it's a trilogy, little brother, a trilogy. And FYI, the third book has special chapters. Limited edit..." He continues. Another squeak from the couch. She breathes heavily. Heunice stops and takes a breath. "Serene is pacing back and forth. She can't sleep. She probably already knows you picked Heather up here in the Philippines."

F*ck.

Anomaly. The woman behind me—Heather, only a tool that I'll use to mess with Serene, but becomes a disruption to a system that I created, not only to the four years of slowly executing my plan against Serene, but also to my existence.

Heather happened a couple of times. I failed. This time I won't. I reached a breakthrough earlier. I won't waste it. Not now. Multitask. Hit two birds with one stone. I can do that. Only the other bird will fall—Serene—the other—free, with me.

"Bien, " I reply. The sound of Heather getting up from the couch—she's awake.

"Oh, so you're with Heather. Okay." Keystrokes register from the other end of the line. Likely, he's in front of a monitor, watching the live feed from the hidden camera inside Serene's room. "Anyhow, just as you planned: Jean has been ruled out as a suspect."

"Tu as maquillé ça en suicide, n'est-ce pas ?" I keep it in French. Heather doesn't need to know what Yngrid's death really was.

"You mean the bully Heather once beat up? Yes. I made it look like a suicide, just as you want. You still don't trust me, do you?" Heunice retorts.

"I don't trust anyone," I reply.

He laughs, breaths registered from the other line. "Anything you say. So long as you pay for my services, you have my love and loyalty, little brother."

"Et le partenaire commercial de son père?"

"Oh, Heather's father's business associate. The bastard who stole millions from her dad. Did I catch your French right?"

"Oui." My head turns. Enough to show a lifeless glance. She avoids. Immediately. I look forward.

"I killed him, too." He replies. Proud, likely smirking. "No one will be able to find him."

"Parfait. L'argent est à toi," I tell him. Heather's father's associate's stolen money—now his.

"For real?"

"Oui." I end the call. A genuine smile. Pulse. Intensify. Fleeting. But a dopamine hit. The satisfaction lingers—chemical, electric—spreading under my skin as silence reclaims the cabin.

That night. Jean and Heather—in a hotel; CCTV footage of them went viral; she faces a scandal in the Philippines. And then, Yngrid died. Jean—Yngrid's bodyguard—became the suspect. Heather's father's associate vanished. Now the father takes the fall. All happened simultaneously—within 24 hours. Heunice did the job.

All of it—even the slightest ripple that led to this moment—was mine. Now, there she is—sitting in my plane.

Exactly where she should be.

Slowly, I slip the phone back into my pocket and turn.

She looks away. Still sitting—comforter drapes over her legs; exposed feet on the couch, toes relaxed, arms loose, knees hugged close to her chest. Body knows before mind does—she tries to look small, yet hopes for the perfect moment to escape. Unconsciously.

A survival instinct.

Can't blame her. This luxury jet. The five-course meal she didn't eat. The Bentley-branded everything. My immediate response when she was helpless, not knowing who that person would be—she only knew my name; she hadn't seen my face until now.

People would call it mysterious. I call it disorientation. It sharpens focus. Awakens curiosity, yet the mind anticipates authority. That's me. The authority. She panics, under my presence, simply by sensing the silence.

Ten seconds. I wait. No words, no movement—just me watching her breathe. Three. Two. One. Her toes curl; she hugs her knees tight; her desire to stand and leave—gone.

And so I walk toward the table. She blinks—I don't—as I pop the whiskey open.

I take my eyes away. They land on my hand, holding the canister steady. "So, how's your sleep, Miss Arellano?" Neutral. No warmth. No threat. Just enough ambiguity to make her nervous about how to respond.

A faint creak hums from the leather as she shifts. It sounds so small, it echoes in the silence like a confession. She turns her head. She looks.

Good.

The stream of the whiskey pouring, unhurried—a sensory anchor. I haven't met her eyes yet. Let her study me. Let her project. I am not what she expects. That's the point. The result: her breathing, unease, shaking; her nervous system, reacting.

My thumb grazes the rim of the glass—slow, gentle—a ritual of stillness before contact. I look up. Her eyes meet mine, her breathing shifts—shallow, uneven. She avoids me again.

Perfect. Eye contact is a test. She fails.

Not because she's weak—but because I'm overwhelming.

That's the first lesson: I am the environment.

"Not good." Her voice trembles; eyes on the front, on her sleeping aunt at the other end of the cabin, not on me. The words exit her mouth like a defense, not an answer.

Slowly. Deliberately. I walk, never blink, and sit across from her. I cross one leg over the other. Glass in hand. Elbows on the armrest.

Posture—relaxed dominance.

"It must be shocking," I say, "to marry a stranger." I frame her situation as inevitable. Subtle. To push her. To defend herself.

Her chest rises. She tries to regulate.

She has to speak through the tension. And she does, "No. It wasn't. I'm... e-enraged. Infuriated. Displeased."

Strong words. Good. But her voice betrays her. Trembling. Stuttering. Yet she stares directly into my eyes.

I give her ten seconds. I don't blink. I don't flinch. Her eyes turn fiery. She grips the comforter. Inner corner of her lips, she bites, secretly.

That's it. Let her drown in the silence. Let her wait. Let her think about what I say next.

"Well," I begin, voice steady, "you don't look like one." A harmless comment yet discrediting her emotional reality—a subtle gaslight.

The result: she breaks eye contact—she fails—again. Her mind, her confidence—begins to deteriorate. Even the air thickens; recycled cabin scent mixes with her perfume—fear sweetened with citrus.

That's the second lesson: her feelings are not reliable. I am.

I sip the whiskey. "You're nervous." I declare, naming not only her feelings but also the rhythm, the tone, and the topic. To make her aware of what she looks like to me.

She doesn't respond, though—only her pulse. It flutters at her neck—visible, measured. Her eyes are not on mine, still.

That's fine. That's a submission response.

"Is my presence making you nervous?" I provoke, giving her the only thing she relies on to reclaim control—etiquette.

"Are you Hugo Fabian? Just asking. You seemed to forget to introduce yourself."

Predictable.

I smile. Controlled. Lip-only. No eyes. "Yes. I'm Hugo Fabian."

She accuses me. "How did you get the advantage of my misfortune?"

"I was in a board meeting with your Aunt Elle when your mother called. I overheard what they were talking about. So, yeah..." I pause... and then breathe, calmly... I speak again, this time more slowly, "I took advantage of your misfortune, Miss. Arellano." I reward her directness with honesty.

Truth is more disarming than lies.

"Why me? You don't know me."

"Oh, trust me, Heat, I do." I finish the whiskey. I use the nickname. Make it sound familiar. Make her wonder how much I know.

The result: she pauses. Blinks once. The hum of the engine... louder.

"You captivated me the time I saw you in the picture and read your curriculum vitaé." My voice... full of admiration; my pulse rises—a thrill at recognizing her beauty. "I watched you sleep. You captivate me even more this instant now that you're awake."

Let her feel seen; feel special; feel chosen, and yet—invaded.

Two contradictory ideas create tension in the brain. So the brain chooses the one that gives comfort: she's seen, she's special, she's chosen.

The invaded part—justified.

Lips part, she holds her breath. She likes being admired.

So I pull back, "Now I am sure that risking millions for marrying you will be a substantial investment."

"Substantial investment." She looks at me. Her fiery eyes narrow. She scoffs. "You know what I think? You have an agenda."

I put the empty canister on the coffee table. The clink of ice—timed, controlled. "We both have." I declare. "You need me, I want you—that's the agenda."

"I don't need you; my parents do." She tears up.

I notice. I don't comfort. I smile. Lip-only. Let her feel the absence of empathy. Let her crave softness that will never come.

"Either way, it is what it is." Deliberate, calm, I lean my back on the seat—ankle over the knee.

"Regardless, still," she says, frowning, sounding irritated, "your agenda is insubstantial for a substantial investment, Mr. Fabian."

"Thing is, I have civil disputes," I say, pertaining to one of the ripples I orchestrated. Immediately, her eyes soften. "I've been planning to request a guardianship; I need protection, Heather. And you are the one who will protect me." Weaponized vulnerabilities. Make her feel powerful. Make her believe she'll be in control.

That's the third lesson: False empowerment = compliance.

And so, her arms loosen; she sits straight, her feet still on the couch. Irritation disappears. Fascination appears. She thinks she's reclaiming control. I let her. That's how obedience starts—through illusion.

Partially, her mouth opens. "Guardia—

"I've been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder; I am a sociopath." Not a lie. Just not the whole truth. I explain the entire guardianship thing— which is a curated truth. "There could be times when I couldn't decide on any civil actions for myself. If I were to request a guardianship, a judge would appoint a responsible person who would carry out civil matters—my finances, assets, and well-being."

Silence. She crosses her arms over her chest. Processing. Justifying my motivation.

She believes but still hesitates. "So why me?"

"Because I know you."

"You don't."

Defiance. Admirable.

Now I'm entertained, so I reward her. "Yes, I do, I've asked Elle everything about you. I've carefully read your curriculum vitaé. You are bold, decisive, and self-assured. You know what you fight for. You know what you want, when to stop." My lips curl. "And you love challenges." Her eyes glint. She loves what she hears.

But then... I immediately take back the reward I gave. "And, you're not compulsive about money. I know your background, Heat—One hundred fifty thousand and fifteen centavos in your bank account. Your father had deposited that money for years. You just spent almost a quarter of it."

She freezes. Not because she's shocked that I know every piece about her. But because of the power I possess—I make her feel seen again, but naked, owned—powerless.

Perfect. Her agency—totally gone.

I continue to escalate, calm yet deliberate. "Look, if you're still skeptical about this whole thing, I can give you two options: one, we get married, Treat each other the way married couples do—You fulfill your responsibilities as my wife; I'll fulfill mine as your husband—which means having kids, which also means having s*x with me." I smile. She pauses. My chest—pounding. A thrill.

"And the second option?" Scratched on the forehead, she's embarrassed.

"We'll be married only on paper, be a married couple only in public, and then you do your responsibilities as my guardian."

"What if suddenly, in the future, one of us decides to file for divorce?"

"Choose option one, we are free to do that. Unless, of course, you haven't given me an heir. If you choose the latter, let me ask you this: what's the use of divorce when you're free to do whatever you want? If you were to have another man, I won't interfere—as long as you keep it out of the public eye." I lean over. Elbows on the knees. "Either you become my child's mother—ensuring my assets stay away from those who don't deserve them—or, simply to protect those assets, your father stays out of jail."

Two options: s*xual threat vs. public performance, under the cloak of generosity—but both are traps; the benefits... both are mine. Either of the two, still a leash, a bind. And her freedom to choose—only an illusion.

"Can I just be your guardian without marrying you?"

Ah, she entertains me again. She's strong; I'll give her that, so I laugh—once. "You can't. If we aren't married, you're not eligible to be my guardian. Technically, you're just a stranger. We just met, didn't we?"

"Why not impregnate someone else?"

Her consciousness still tries to make sense of me. Yet her subconscious learns quickly, catches up, and asks for more validations from me, without her even realizing it. I can give—only if she complies.

"I am very much willing to help you, Heat. Without my help, your father will go to jail. Your clock is ticking, mine too, so you have to choose."

Then... the call comes. Her Aunt Elle answers. Heather runs toward the aunt, barefoot. The comforter rests peacefully on the floor, opposing every thud of her feet toward the galley of the jet. I follow, silently.

Her father—arrested; my orchestration.

Perfect timing, Heaunice.

Now, the final push. She turns to me—pain, hurt, sadness... all written on her face. "I will marry you right now. But I couldn't choose either of your options, yet."

I nod, calm, and mirror her expression. I reward her surrender with softness. "I understand. I'll give you time to get to know me."

The softness of my voice, a kind remark. Her breathing steadies. Shoulders drop. The faintest relief flickers in her eyes.

There it is, my mixed signals—hot and cold, inconsistent (intermittent reinforcement); I cause the pain; I remove that pain; I, as the source of torment and comfort, the neural link forming: my softness = safety.

The result: she runs to the bathroom. To cry, to break—a tension release.

I listen. I stare at the bathroom door—the foundation of conditioning, quiet, invisible, already setting in.

Every small permission I give her now will train the next.

Every silence will tell her when to stop.

Every glance will decide what she feels.

A ritual, quiet and precise.

No screams. No chains. Only conditioning.

And Heather—fragile, furious, unknowingly compliant—becomes the perfect leverage, a weapon against Serene—and a possession... my possession.

_________

The ritual is complete. The conditioning begins. People mistake control for care. Even God did—cloaking obedience in love, consequence in mercy. I simply learned the pattern early and forgot why it mattered.

-Hugo

_________

A/N: This story reflects how trauma bonds start to form—sometimes, not only through violence, but through confusion, covert control, and intermittent care. If it feels familiar, please pause and take a deep breath. You deserve relationships where safety isn't conditional.