Zara woke up again — and immediately regretted it.
Her head throbbed, her body felt like a used towel, and she was lying on something suspiciously soft and human. Oh. Right. The human pillow. The angelic beauty with the emerald eyes.
Still in her arms. Still warm. Still perfect.
"Wow," Zara mumbled under her breath. "You're still here. Okay, subconscious, this is getting weirdly consistent for a dream."
Then she heard it — a voice. Quiet. Shaky. Trembling with emotion.
At first, she thought the beauty was praying. But then the words started sinking in. "Please," the girl whispered, her accent delicate and musical. "I'll get the money. I swear. Just give me a little more time. Please spare my sister… she's still young. She doesn't deserve this."
Zara blinked.
Wait. Who was sparing who?
And what sister?
Her sleepy brain tried to do the math — her, the beauty, and the… wait, was she the sister? The hell was going on in this dream?!
She sat up, rubbing her head. Her surroundings finally came into focus — a dimly lit basement, damp walls, metal pipes, and flickering yellow lights straight out of a crime thriller. The smell was a mix of dust, fear, and cheap cologne.
"Oh, nice," Zara muttered. "My dream budget apparently includes a full hostage set."
Then she saw it — a shoe. Not just any shoe. A clean, black, mirror-shiny leather shoe. The kind of clean that said, I kill people but also polish my shoes right after.
Her eyes followed the shoe upward — tailored pants, long legs crossed lazily, a gloved hand resting on a thigh, and then, finally, a face.
And God… that face.
Her jaw slackened. "Okay, plot twist," she whispered. "Did my brain just render perfection in HD?"
He was sitting like a man who owned time itself — calm, elegant, and mildly terrifying. Sharp jaw, cold eyes, a faint scar cutting through his eyebrow like an artist's final brushstroke of menace.
And when he spoke, his voice rolled through the air — low, rich, and sinful enough to be illegal. Zara instantly forgot English.
She didn't hear a damn word. She just stared.
That voice could melt butter. Or laws. Or both. She might have been drooling — slightly. Maybe dramatically. Definitely dramatically.
"Zara, control yourself," she whispered to herself. "He's dream-coded. This is how people get pregnant in their sleep."
She was mid-drool when something tugged at her arm again. That same soft, trembling pull.
The beauty beside her — her living angel pillow — had pulled her closer protectively. Again. Her emerald eyes were wide, full of fear.
Zara blinked. "Oh wow, you have a thing for pulling me, huh? Not that I'm complaining, but girl, I'm starting to think you're jealous I'm drooling over mister murderously handsome over there."
The girl didn't respond. She just clutched her tighter, whispering something frantic under her breath. Zara caught a few words — "forgive," "sister," "please."
Zara frowned. Sister again?
Her brain immediately jumped to the stupidest conclusion. "Wait," she muttered softly, staring at the girl's face. "You mean… me? You're calling me your sister? Ohhh, dream plot twist number forty-seven incoming."
Meanwhile, Mr. Perfection-in-Shoes spoke again, his voice smooth but sharp, like a threat wrapped in silk. "You had one week," he said. "One. Yet here you are again — empty-handed."
The beauty flinched, dropping to her knees, bowing her head until her forehead almost touched the floor. "Please! I'll get it! Just… not her. She's innocent, she doesn't know anything. Take me if you must."
Zara's brain stuttered. Take her? For what? Money? Mafia? Sacrifice? What kind of Rated-R side quest is this dream pulling?
She blinked rapidly, whispering to herself, "No, because why is this dream giving Netflix original energy?"
Then it happened — two heavy hands grabbed her from behind.
Zara yelped, kicking instinctively. "Hey! Hands off, you freaks! I didn't sign up for the 'touch me without consent' expansion pack!"
But the hands didn't stop. They were big, rough, strong — definitely not the angel girl's delicate ones. "Oh hell no," Zara groaned. "Two pairs?! Great. This dream just went multiplayer."
The emerald-eyed girl cried out again, throwing herself toward them. "Please, take me instead! She's just a child!"
Child?! Zara gasped. "Hold on, who's a child? Excuse you, I pay taxes!—Well, sometimes."
The girl ignored her, crawling on her knees, hands clasped together in front of the terrifyingly beautiful man. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she begged, "Take me, please. I'll do anything. Don't hurt her."
Zara blinked. "Oh no, sweetheart, we are not doing the sacrificial sister act. Nope. Not in my dream. This isn't a Disney reboot."
She reached out to pull the girl back — and froze.
Her hands.
White. Slim. Smooth. Unfamiliar.
The light flickered over the pale skin, catching on delicate fingers that were not hers. Zara stared, blinking once. Twice. Thrice.
Wait. What?
Her breathing hitched. She turned her hand over, watching the veins, the perfect nails. That wasn't her skin tone. That wasn't her hand.
"Oh hell no," she whispered. "What in the Freaky Friday is this?"
She looked at the girl — the beautiful, trembling angel — and suddenly realized the horrible truth. The men weren't calling her the sister. They were calling the girl the sister.
And she — Zara, queen of denial — was sitting in the wrong body.
Her voice cracked, a strangled laugh escaping. "Oh… oh this is insane. I didn't just dream a kidnapping scene. I dreamed myself into somebody else's life!"
She clutched her pale hands like they might explode. "Okay, brain, this is impressive. Terrifying. But impressive."
The man's gaze shifted to her finally, sharp and calculating. "And you," he said softly. "You're quiet."
Zara's mouth fell open. "Oh no, sir, I'm not quiet. I'm just buffering."
The beauty turned toward her, confused, whispering urgently, "Don't speak."
Too late.
Zara smiled nervously. "Hi, so, I know this isn't the best time, but could someone please tell me whose hands these are? Because mine were definitely darker and had chipped nail polish from last week's emotional breakdown."
Silence. Absolute, horrified silence.
Then the man leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Interesting," he murmured. "So the quiet one finally speaks."
Zara blinked. "Quiet? Honey, you have no idea how wrong that statement is."
She was about to say more — something stupid and sarcastic, probably — but the girl grabbed her wrist again, squeezing hard. "Please," she whispered. "Just don't say anything."
Zara stared at her, heart pounding, confusion blooming like wildfire.
Dream.
Reality. Wrong body. Mafia boss. Crying beauty.
This wasn't just a dream anymore.
Something was very wrong.
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