"You don't feel anything, do you?"
That was the first time someone said it to my face. No filter. No sugar. Just raw, uncomfortable truth.
I smiled—one of those slow, practiced smiles that could pass for seductive or innocent depending on what I needed it to be. This time? Innocent.
"What do you mean?" I asked, tilting my head like a confused puppy. Classic move.
He shook his head. "Never mind. You're just… different."
Different. That word again. People always threw it at me like it was supposed to sting. But it didn't. I took it as a compliment, better than being called a weirdo.
At least, not the things I was supposed to feel.
Because the truth is, he was right. I didn't feel anything. Thanks to my dad that made it impossible for me to feel or even admit that I do, he made it possible for me to lose any trace of empathy. First the domestic violence at home.. basically he'd start from my mom and transfer the aggression to his kids, trust me it was hectic.
I vowed never to be like my mom. She refused to leave even when she wanted to. According to her she has no idea of where she'd start from. Imagine.
Looking back now, my teen era was the soft launch of my villain origin story. Nothing dramatic, no tragic backstory, no "I watched my house burn down" moment. Just one slow, steady realization: I could fake my feelings better than most people could express theirs.
And that made me dangerous.
It started small—harmless flirtations in class, sweet smiles to borrow notes, extra blinks to get an extra meat pie. Then came the real games: playing boys against each other, feigning heartbreak just to make someone feel guilty enough to send me airtime. I didn't even need the airtime. I needed the power.
You see, I wasn't heartless.
I just didn't care.
Especially not about love. Please. Love was for people who had the luxury to be broke and still dream. Me? I wanted a soft life, and I was willing to perform my way into it. For clarity, I'm not love starved. My mom's love is enough for me.
I came from a home that wasn't poor enough to beg, but not rich enough to rest. We were stuck in that middle zone of "manage it like that." Secondhand clothes, but first-class expectations. My mom once told me, "We may not have much, but we have dignity." L wish.
Well, dignity doesn't pay for data. Or wigs.
So I made a decision: if I couldn't feel love, I'd sell the illusion of it. And babe, I was good.
I could mirror your emotions so perfectly, you'd think I was your soulmate. You'd cry, and I'd wipe your tears with practiced sympathy. You'd smile, and I'd mirror it just enough to convince you I was really there with you. I learned early that people don't want truth—they want comfort or just tell them what they need to hear, trust me your opinion doesn't matter.
So I gave them what they wanted.
For a price.
But don't get me wrong—it wasn't all smooth. I had to learn the ropes, make mistakes, fall flat on my face and pick myself back up. Every lie I told sharpened my skill. Every transfer I received became a trophy.
It was thrilling. It was hell. And I loved every moment.
But then came the hunger. The need for more. More money. More influence. More illusion. The little manipulations weren't enough anymore. I wanted to win.
That's when the greed kicked in.
And that's when things got dark.
Because it's one thing to fake love. It's another thing to fake yourself.
Still, I didn't stop. I couldn't. Not until I made it. Not until I climbed out of "average."
But like every good story… mine had a twist.
And it wore a devil's smile.
I met my match—someone I couldn't read, couldn't play, couldn't win.
My nemesis.
But we'll get to him.
For now, let's rewind to the first boy I ever liked ..the reason.. just his smile, a lie, and my teenage charm
It was iconic.