I'm Hailey, and if you met me in my office, you'd probably think I'm the kind of woman who has it all together. A warm smile, a gentle voice, a knack for making you feel like you're the only person in the world who matters. I'm a psychologist, after all—twenty-nine years old, with a degree from a prestigious university and a thriving practice in Northgate Lake City. But that's just the mask I wear. Beneath it, I'm something else entirely. I'm not a good person. I'm not even a decent one. I'm a creature of appetites, of dark urges that pulse through me like a second heartbeat. And I've learned to feed them, oh, so carefully.
Let me take you back to where it all started, to the moments that shaped me into the woman I am today. The first time I tasted smoke, liquor, and the bitter tang of betel nut. The first time I felt the thrill of crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed. And the day I took a man's life—not just any man, but the kingpin of Northgate Lake City's underworld—and claimed his throne for myself.
It was my second year of university, in a dorm room that smelled of cheap incense and stale coffee. I was nineteen, restless, and already teetering on the edge of something dangerous. My roommate, a wiry girl named Lena, had a pack of cigarettes stashed under her mattress. She caught me staring at it one night while we were studying, or pretending to. "Want one?" she asked, her voice teasing, like she knew I'd say no but hoped I wouldn't.
I'd never smoked before. My parents were the kind who thought a glass of wine at Christmas was decadent. But I was curious, and curiosity has always been my downfall. I took the cigarette, my fingers trembling just a little as I held it to my lips. Lena lit it for me, and I inhaled, expecting some grand revelation. Instead, I coughed so hard I thought my lungs would collapse. The smoke was harsh, acrid, like swallowing a handful of ash. But then came the rush—a tingling warmth that spread through my chest, my head, my fingertips. It was like waking up for the first time. I took another drag, then another, and by the time the cigarette was a stub, I was hooked. Not just on the nicotine, but on the act itself—the defiance of it, the way it made me feel alive in a way I hadn't before.
The drinking came next, a few weeks later at a party in some off-campus apartment. The air was thick with sweat and cheap perfume, and someone handed me a red plastic cup filled with something that smelled like paint thinner. Vodka, they said. I took a sip, and it burned all the way down, setting my throat on fire. But I liked it—the way it dulled the edges of my thoughts, the way it made me feel untouchable. I drank more, and soon I was laughing too loud, dancing too close to strangers, letting the alcohol peel away the good-girl facade I'd worn for so long. By the end of the night, I was vomiting in the bathroom, but even that felt like a victory. I'd tasted freedom, and I wanted more.
Betel nut was a slower addiction, one I stumbled into during a trip to a market on the outskirts of Northgate Lake City. I was twenty, working an internship at a local clinic, and a street vendor offered me a quid—a small packet of areca nut wrapped in a betel leaf, smeared with lime paste. "Try it," he said, his grin all teeth and mischief. I chewed, and the first bite was a shock: bitter, spicy, and strangely numbing. My mouth tingled, my heart raced, and a warm flush spread across my face. It wasn't just the taste—it was the ritual, the way it made me feel like I was part of something secret, something forbidden. I bought a bag of the stuff and chewed it every day after that, letting the bitterness anchor me, letting it become a part of who I was.
These vices—smoke, liquor, betel nut—weren't just habits. They were my first steps into a world where rules didn't apply to me. They fed something inside me, something that had always been there, waiting to be awakened. And once it was awake, it was insatiable.
I've done things most people couldn't stomach. Things that would make my clients—those poor, trusting souls who spill their secrets to me—run screaming if they knew. I've killed. I've stolen. I've carved up bodies in my basement lab, not for science, but for pleasure. The first time I took a life, it was messy, impulsive. A client who got too close, who started asking questions about my late-night absences. I lured him to my villa, dosed his wine with cyanide, and watched him choke on his own breath. I didn't feel guilt. I felt… alive. Powerful. Like I'd finally become the person I was meant to be.
But the moment that truly defined me, the moment I became more than just a woman with dark urges, was the night I took down Viktor, the head of Northgate Lake City's most feared syndicate. He was a brute of a man, all muscle and menace, ruling the city's underworld from his penthouse in Seawall North. I'd been working with his crew for a while, moving product—drugs, mostly, but also the occasional organ or two. Viktor thought I was just another cog in his machine, a pretty face with a useful skill set. He didn't know I was watching, learning, waiting.
I planned it for weeks. I knew his routines, his weaknesses. He liked his women compliant, his whiskey neat, and his ego stroked. So I played the part—dressed in a black satin dress, my lips painted coal-black, a pair of medical latex gloves tucked into my purse. I told him I wanted to discuss a new deal, something that would make us both rich. He invited me to his place, and I went, my heart pounding not with fear but with anticipation.
When I arrived, I poured him a drink, slipping a sedative into the glass. He didn't notice; he was too busy leering at me, his eyes glassy with lust and liquor. Within minutes, he was slumped on the couch, his breathing slow and shallow. I didn't kill him right away. No, that would've been too easy. I wanted him to suffer, to know who was taking everything from him.
I dragged him to the bathroom, tied him to a chair with surgical precision, and waited for him to wake. When he did, his eyes widened with panic, but I just smiled. I put on my gloves—black latex, cool against my skin—and picked up a scalpel. "You've been running this city for too long," I whispered, leaning close. "It's my turn now."
I started with his fingers, slicing through the joints with slow, deliberate cuts. He screamed, of course, but the penthouse was soundproofed, and I'd made sure the guards were distracted. Blood pooled on the tile floor, and I felt a rush unlike anything I'd ever known. It wasn't just the act of cutting—it was the control, the power, the way his fear fed something deep inside me. I worked my way up his arms, then his chest, taking my time, savoring every moment. By the time I reached his heart, he was barely conscious, his body a ruin. I finished him with a single, precise stab, then severed his head with a bone saw. It was messy work, but I was meticulous, cleaning every trace of myself from the scene.
I took his head to the syndicate's next meeting, wrapped in a black velvet bag. When I walked in, the room went silent. I dumped the head on the table, let it roll across the polished wood, and said, "I'm in charge now." Some of them laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others tried to challenge me. They didn't last long. I had Viktor's lieutenants in my pocket—bribed, threatened, or seduced—and the rest fell in line when they saw what I was capable of. I'd studied them all, knew their secrets, their weaknesses. I'd become their worst nightmare, and they respected that.
Why do I do these things? Why does a woman with a successful career, a daughter, a life most would envy, choose to live like this? It's not just about the money, though the money is nice—millions stashed in offshore accounts, villas in three countries, a fleet of cars I barely drive. It's about the rush. The feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff and choosing to jump. I'm a sex addict, a fetishist, a sociopath. I crave the things that make normal people flinch—silk stockings, latex gloves, the weight of a gun in my hand. I wear black lipstick and heavy eyeliner because it makes me feel like a predator, like I'm stepping into a role I was born to play. I smoke, drink, chew betel nut, and sometimes snort a line of something stronger because they keep me sharp, keep me hungry.
When the urges hit, it's like a fever. I'll lock myself in my villa's basement, surrounded by my tools—scalpels, syringes, a fridge full of chemicals. I'll put on my favorite outfit: a black JK uniform, thigh-high boots, and those sleek latex gloves that feel like a second skin. I'll light a cigarette, pour a glass of whiskey, and let the darkness take over. Sometimes I'll dissect a body, just to feel the give of flesh under my blade. Other times, I'll watch old videos of my "experiments," reliving the screams, the pleading, the moment when they realize there's no escape. It's not about cruelty, not really. It's about control. About rewriting the world in my image.
I became this person because I had to. Because the world is a lie, and I refused to be one of its victims. Northgate Lake City is a perfect example—half paradise, half hell. The glittering skyline hides a rotting underbelly, a place where people like me thrive. Seawall North, where I live, is the heart of it all. The lake, with its serene waters, is a smuggling route, a dumping ground for bodies and secrets. The authorities turn a blind eye because I make sure their pockets are lined. I've built an empire here, not just of money but of fear. People whisper my name in the shadows, and that's how I like it.
My daughter thinks I'm a saint. She's five, living with her grandmother in a mansion halfway across the world. I visit when I can, scrubbing the smoke from my breath, hiding the tattoos under long sleeves, playing the part of the doting mother. She doesn't know about her father, my husband, who was as twisted as I am. We met in university, bonded over our shared darkness. He taught me how to steal, how to kill, how to live without remorse. When he died, jumping into Northgate Lake to escape the law, I didn't mourn. I evolved. I took his lessons and made them my own.
My villa is my fortress, a sprawling estate on the outskirts of Seawall North. It's a maze of empty rooms and hidden passages, with a basement lab that's my true sanctuary. The security is airtight—cameras, bulletproof glass, reinforced walls. I could survive a siege here, and I probably will someday. But for now, it's where I indulge my desires, where I become the truest version of myself.
I don't know if I was born this way or made this way. Maybe it's both. All I know is that this is who I am—a woman who walks the line between order and chaos, who finds joy in the things that make others recoil. I'm Hailey, the psychologist, the mother, the monster. And I wouldn't have it any other way.