Monica stares with a blank expression, but underneath an uncomfortable anger simmer. She doesn't like that smile on her face, but she voices none of her displeasure.

That's not me––– no shit, sherlock.

She can modulate her voice to be less pitchy, but it's never been this modulated!

Who the fuck is using my face?

"Who are you and why are you in my body?" Her knees jittering, she had to hold it down to keep it still.

The latter responds with a bigger grin.

Urgh! I look so stupid.

"You sound upset," the woman on the phone answers. "Why? Look around you, you're living my life. Money, fame, beauty. All of this will now be yours but it's not for free sadly. I'd like to discuss the terms for this luxurious life now, if you don't mind. I'm not asking much for it, anyway."

Monica narrows her eyes at her, not buying any of the bullshit marketing talk. "Who are you and why are you in my body?"

"I understand. You must be thinking that this is all a dream..."

That never registered in her mind.

The caller's voice fades, she looks away, contemplating.

"...You're Sunniva Glasse now and you will continue to be me if you do as I say."

The woman on the phone now long forgotten. Her mind clung to the idea of dreaming.

Was she that tired during her last graveyard shift to think of something so creepy?

To be fair, it's a less creepy dream than the one with the black lady looming at the corner of her room with her white pupil-less eyes.

Then again, that dream's only creepy the more you entertain the thought of a malicious ghost while awake.

Without hearing the rest of it, Monica ended the call.

She closes her eyes, hoping that it's an instantaneous release where she'll wake up back in her body, but many minutes passed, and nothing happened.

Her phone rings and it's from the evil version again.

She answered it without thought. She sees her face fuming, but it composed itself quickly.

"How dare you interrupt me while I'm talking, peasant. Test not my patience."

Am I in another world––– Am I in my actual world––– This has to be a dream––– No, it feels too real––– fuck off! What's real about this?

She stares at her real face, fingers tracing her lips, while she zones out of the scolding. The voices in her head wild and in need for answer.

"I wanna go home." Monica whispers,

Sunniva, in Monica's body, pauses. She analyzes Monica, in her body, genuinely waiting.

No hint of manipulation nor sarcasm. That momentary pause in that confidence was so brief, no one would notice it, but Monica did. She said nothing.

"Let me change the conditions for you then." Sunniva grins, scheming written all over her face. "You can't go home unless you do something for me."

Monica's brows furrows. Ears burning. "The fuck does that mean?"

"Was I not simple enough?"

"Bitch, I can tell you're lying! You switched up! You think I'm gonna say yes now?"

Sunniva chuckles, "I am your only way home."

"Go fuck yourself!"

Monica throws the phone on the bed, rummaging through every cabinet for papers, files, anything! Anything at all. But it's hard to look for something you don't even know.

And it's harder to know what's important when none of what she sees mean anything to her.

It's a dream––– What if it isn't––– We can wait it out. Let it happen––– Where the fuck are we ev––– I don't know!

"Shut up!" Monica hisses, snapping her fingers to ground herself.

Marching back to her phone, she grabs it. "What do you want?"

In her head, she focused on that one thread. Let the dream run its course.

Sunniva huffs, her jaw slacks. "What I want and what you want are one and the same. See, I casted a spell, it backfired. Now, we find ourselves in this predicament and I want you to cast that same spell again. Do you understand?"

Monica nodded. Her attempt of figuring things out but eventually her gaze trails off as Sunniva started listing the materials for the spell to work.

Wow... she's... she's a walking instructions manual.

"Clearly, you do not value your return." Sunniva's cold remarks snapped her wandering thoughts.

"Don't blame me! Your instructions are too damn long. And if it backfired before, why wouldn't it backfire again?"

Sunniva purses her lips.

Ding!

A message was sent to Monica's phone.

The list is long. Not because of the required materials, no that's barely a third of it. What made it long is the extensive instruction that came with it that apparently, our lady in the phone typed in a matter of seconds. There're names on it.

...contact this person in sitio somewhere somewhere and that person from barrio fuck yourself— Too complicated!

"I do not wish to hear any more of your complaints." Says Sunniva, eyes boring into her. "Do we have a deal?"

Biting the insides of her cheeks, Monica grumbles. "Yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever."

As she said that Sunniva began an incantation, which sounded gibberish. Monica didn't bother to listen, walking towards the stacks of paper to write down the list herself when soon, her left arm starts to glow.

Sunniva raises the same arm to show hers glowing as well.

"You must make sure that I am to return safely to my body within a month or your soul shall be mine."

"Okay, hold on. What the fuck?!" Monica started flaring her arms. "Stop this!"

"This is our contract. My assurance."

"Alright then, if you don't give me five million, six hundred thousand pesos after I get you back, your soul will be mine."

Sunniva's smile grew large, and shadows enveloped her. "Oh, you naive soul. I casted this. Only I get to dictate the contents of our contract."

With a shit eating grin, she finishes her spell. Monica began feeling this immense heat on her arm. She cries out but there's not a sound leaving her vocal cords.

Weakened, she fell to her knees, almost hallucinating in pain.

The waves crash against the cliffside like someone is perpetually attempting a cannon ball over and over. It matches the beat of the pounding headache she's experiencing.

Monica would've loved it, hearing the beach for the first time. But all she could feel is the throbbing pain of the tattoo crawling up her arm toward her entire body. Pin-pricked needles underneath her skin like millions of bugs wanting escape.

It was agony, torture, and endless held breathes. Nothing made it easier for her.

Not when she kept her whole body still.

Not when she curled herself into a ball.

Not even as she slammed her right arm to her knees, hoping an outward tangible pain could overwrite the intangible burning needles inside her arm.

Tears streak her face, lungs gasping for air; she had forgotten to breathe to escape the pain. As she took her first inhale in almost a minute, a numbness spreads from her chest to her limbs.

After it's done, the call ends and she's left with this fiery red tattoo of a coiling thick mermaid-like tail that reaches up to her elbow. Inside the scales are glyphs she doesn't understand but on the back of her palm is a square and three alternating diagonal lines, it glows with her name embedded on the lines before it fades as if it wasn't there in the first place.

Monica is ass up, on the floor, panting.

There's drool on her mouth.

This isn't a dream––– It's a drea––– THAT PAIN WAS REAL!

"No," Monica cried out. "I, I probably had leg cramps again. Yeah. That's probably it."

She stood up, after enduring the pain, and in her hazy thought process, decided to go back to writing down what she needs in hopes that she could gather her thoughts.

"We said we'd calm down, so calm the fuck down." She mumbles, closing her eyes shut. Breathing in, breathing out. "Everything will be fine."

Words she can't force herself to believe. She started humming while reading the contents of the spell again.

Sitting there with mixed feelings, the voices in her head craving attention, one begging them to enjoy the dream while the other arguing that there's nothing enjoyable happening, a knock came to the door.

"My lady, are you okay in there? There seems to be some trouble happening. Can you open the door?" A voice from a woman asked.

Monica ignored it, staring at the piece of paper like a lifeline. Words floating in and out of her head.

It doesn't make sense.

"The fuck are these? Chalk worth a thousand gold. Something like this exist?" Her brows furrow, repeating the word gold to herself.

Preoccupied with the absurdity of the currency in this world, she fails to notice a person climbing up through the balcony.

Slow, deliberate. They take each step carefully if not for the breeze blowing from the coast, they would've gotten away unnoticed.

Monica turns at the motion of the drapes flowing in through her room.

When the curtains fall back to its place, it reveals a buff woman with beautiful, tanned skin. Eyes glowing yellow standing there in a black turtleneck shirt with a brown cape with yellow cloud links. The glow from above as the sun peaks behind the clouds gave this ethereal light to her.

Catching herself staring, Monica burst into a fit of laughter. "Let me guess, I should come with you, gatinha?"