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Deep in the island’s volcanic heart, the air hung thick with sulfur and damp stone. Green luminescence pulsed from moss clinging to the cavern walls, reflecting in Trisha’s eyes as she leaned against a jagged outcrop. Those eyes—now glowing an unnatural, venomous green—scanned the group chat on her phone. Nate’s boast about the "South Korean baddie," Kaori’s furious Japanese scolding followed by the dolphin story, Jade’s relentless food spam, Jason’s mundane question. Her lips, painted the same deep burgundy as always, curved into a cold smile devoid of amusement. Pathetic little meatsacks, she thought, savoring their oblivious chatter. They hadn’t noticed the absence of the real Trisha. Not yet.

She tapped the screen once, silencing it, and slid the phone back into her climbing shorts. Around her, things that weren't quite Trisha shifted in the oppressive gloom—Spooky Island Demons. The one closest flickered under the cave's dim bioluminescence: unnaturally tall and whip-thin, its posture perpetually hunched as if its long, gangly limbs were too heavy for its purple-sheathed frame. Sickly violet skin, darker and mottled along the bony ridge of its spine and over its shockingly prominent ribs, stretched tight, giving it the gaunt appearance of a starved corpse pulled upright. Its head was elongated, crowned by large, bat-like ears that curled backwards into points like wicked horns. Below them, its wide mouth glistened with the faint hint of jagged teeth, and the animating spark within the vessel leaked out through its eyes, twin pools of livid green fire burning with a predatory, ancient hunger in a face utterly too sharp and alien for comfort. Clawed hands clicked softly against the stone floor, each finger longer than a switchblade. The nectar that would draw flies to its rot.

"Entertaining?" rasped one demon, its voice echoing with the scrape of stone on stone. It gestured a limb that ended in too-long fingers toward her phone.

Trisha—the thing wearing Trisha—pushed off the wall with a predator’s grace, the sharp, airborne scent of impending rain mingling with the cave’s eternal damp rot. "A distraction," it declared, its borrowed voice harsh amidst the dripping stone and whirring machinery. "Nothing more than static." It paused, letting the sheer alien rhythm of its movements – too smooth, too fluid – contrast with the chamber’s crude, demonic chaos. "But they’ve arranged themselves with delightful convenience. Nate’s predictable blind lust. Jade’s easily sated hunger." Its stolen green eyes flickered with cold intelligence. "Jason…"

Here, the demon wearing Trisha paused, its predatory mind assessing the human chatter with cold amusement. "Jason..." it murmured, Trisha's lips curling back just enough to reveal a flash of teeth that were now unnervingly, flawlessly sharp. "Fretting over shopping while the world unravels around him. The most dangerous thing he witnessed today was the price tag on a watch." A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in Trisha’s stolen throat, the sound like grating stone. "Oblivious. Deliciously so." It smoothed the sweat-dampened sports bra with a slow, possessive drag of its palms, fingers lingering to trace the swell of its captive body’s breasts, savoring the firm resilience beneath its touch. The intimate gesture was a mockery of human fragility, a physical boast to the surrounding darkness of its absolute control. "They are all perfectly ripe. Plump, easy prey gathered under one roof." That sharp-toothed grin widened. "Jason’s little mall scare? A flicker of unease, easily ignored, quickly buried beneath luxury and lust. He’ll come like the others, drawn by Trisha’s voice... guided straight to the grindstone. Fresh, screaming meatsuits for the harvest."

She moved with predatory intent toward the exit tunnel, her stride unnaturally smooth and powerful, a chilling contrast to the Trisha who’d once bickered over train seats. As she passed the heart of the chamber—a complex latticework of humming brass pipes, whirring silica components, and archaic gears dusted green by the cave's glow—her gaze flickered for a split second upward, touching the very apex of the structure. There, dominating the machine like a dark pinnacle, sat a small pyramid: fashioned from obsidian so deep it seemed to swallow the dim light around it, its surface unnaturally smooth and carved with faint, angular symbols that pulsed with a sickly green light from within. A single touch of this artifact could take one's soul out of their body, leaving it vacant for the demons to inhabit.

The Daemon Ritus. The key. The thought resonated within the demon wearing Trisha’s form, warm with possessive pride.

She barely glanced at the rest of the machine as the pipes beneath it coiled like obsidian serpents, snaking downwards to plunge into the massive iron cauldron set deep into the cavern floor. Within that vessel churned not liquid, but the stolen harvest of Spooky Island: thousands of swirling, fragmented essences—human souls—pulsating like captive fireflies in a jar. Their soft, collective light painted the stone underbelly of the machine in shifting, ghostly hues.

The demon paused near the cauldron's rim for a beat longer than necessary, long enough to trail Trisha’s fingertips almost wistfully down one of the humming pipes leading directly from the Daemon Ritus to the roiling souls below. Her lips curled into a pleased sneer at the sheer power humming beneath her touch.

"All this," her borrowed voice rolled out, deep and resonant, thick with alien satisfaction, "the pipeline... the harvest... the seamless possession... flows from one source." Her glowing green eyes locked blatantly onto the obsidian pyramid perched like a dark crown above her. "The Daemon Ritus. Brought resonance where there was silence, opened the floodgates... made this paradise possible." The possessive sweep of her hand encompassed the entire cavern, the machine, the souls, her own stolen, lush body. The declaration hung in the sulfur-scented air, a testament to the relic's monstrous accomplishment. Not an explanation to anyone—merely the demon relishing the source of its dominion.

As her words faded, a sharp, desperate cry pierced the omnipresent mechanical hum: "Please! Let me out! I can hear you freaks! My friends—they don't know! They’re walking into—"

The fragment continues organically with the real Trisha's soul screaming her warning...

The demon wearing Trisha stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she turned toward the cauldron. With predatory slowness, she crouched at its rim, peering down. Deep within the churning light, a distinct, brighter spark fluttered wildly—Trisha’s soul. It strained against the confines, radiating pure, undiluted terror.

The demon’s borrowed lips stretched into a wide, cruel grin, revealing a flash of teeth that seemed just a fraction too sharp. "Oh, little birdie," she purred, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness that twisted Trisha’s familiar cadence into something vile. "Still singing your sad song?" She ran a hand over her own abdomen, tracing the ridges of muscle beneath the sports bra, then slid it upwards, deliberately, possessively cupping one full breast, squeezing it with idle appreciation. The real Trisha’s soul recoiled in psychic revulsion. "Hmm. You should be thanking me," the demon continued, the mocking tone deepening into a throaty rasp. "This vessel? Absolute perfection. Strong. Agile. These curves?" She gave the breast in her hand another possessive squeeze, her thumb tracing the outline of the nipple beneath the sweat-stained fabric. "Deliciously distracting. Wasted on someone frantically counting calories while demons walked among you. But don’t you fret, Trisha." She leaned closer to the cauldron’s edge, her glowing green eyes boring into the pitiful spark. "Your loyal friends… they’ll be joining you very soon. We’re picking out their new owners already."

She rose gracefully, tapping one of the violet-skinned demons whose claws scraped against stone. "This one's vocal cords need silencing."

Without hesitation, the skeletal creature lurched toward an enormous obsidian lid resting against the cave wall. As it strained under the weight, muscles sheathed in purple skin rippling unnaturally, Trisha's soul flared brighter in the churning cauldron. "NO! Jason! Nate! Kaori, RUN!" Her psychic scream ripped through the chamber, heavy with terror. "It's a trap! They're waiting! They're—"

The lid slammed down with a thunderous clang that shook the cavern floor, cutting off her voice mid-warning. Only a faint, panicked glowing pulsed through the obsidian cracks as muffled vibrations echoed—desperate fists pounding against the unyielding prison from within.

The demon wearing Trisha breathed in the sudden silence, save for the faint hum of the Daemon Ritus and the distant, muffled throbbing against the cauldron wall. Its borrowed lips curved into a smile of pure, predatory satisfaction. Perfect.

It turned with that same fluid, alien grace and strode towards the exit tunnel, Trisha’s hiking boots crunching with deliberate, echoing rhythm on the volcanic scree. The tunnel sloped upwards, splashes of bioluminescent lichen illuminating damp walls, until finally, humid, tropical air washed over her. She paused at the cave mouth, Trisha’s chest rising in a proud, deep inhale, branded knuckles resting casually on her hips. From this vantage point on the rugged mountainside, Spooky Island’s "paradise" sprawled below—the blinding white curve of the beach teeming with naked, glistening bodies, the twinkling lights of the resort complex, and, far to the left, the stark lines of the hotel where their suite nestled above the surf. The demon’s green eyes scanned it all, possessive and calculating.

Adjusting the straps of Trisha’s backpack with crisp, efficient movements – a jarring contrast to the real Trisha’s more fluid gestures – she started down the hiking trail. The path was dirt and volcanic rock, weaving through dense jungle foliage dripping with moisture. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, warm where it touched Trisha’s bare shoulders. The demon felt the heat, the humid breeze, the slight pull of muscles in powerful legs. It gloried in the physical sensations, in the sheer ownership of this vibrant human form. Every step was a silent declaration of conquest.

As it descended, the demon’s mind, alien and sharp as obsidian shards, turned its attention to the imminent harvest. Which of Trisha’s fragile, flimsy friends would make the perfect first entry in its collection?

Nate. The image floated effortlessly in its borrowed mind: tall, leanly muscled, his face perpetually creased in a reckless grin. The fool who’d taken the chat bait about the beach encounter, broadcasting his lust like a homing beacon. His predictability was laughable… enticing. Broad shoulders, it mused, Trisha’s fingers brushing almost lovingly against the defined swell of her own bicep as she navigated a steep switchback. Strength beneath the stupidity. And so beautifully chaotic. An amusing vessel for some lesser lieutenant, perhaps. Easy to lure into a dark corner with the promise of a willing body.

Then there was Jade. The demon recalled the stream of food photos, the single-minded hedonism. All hunger, no vigilance. A vulnerability as wide as the buffet table. Physically weaker, it assessed coldly, picturing Jade’s delicate frame fitting perfectly into its own clawed grasp. Her obsession… culinary distraction opens a door wide enough to march an entire legion through. The demon could already taste the borrowing: the slow stupefaction as consciousness flickered within her during a moment of ecstatic indulgence over a rare truffle.

Kaori. Shy, modest Kaori, hiding in oversized clothes, scolding Nate over loyalty she couldn’t possibly comprehend from her position as prey. A flicker of… something? Not admiration, but a grudging recognition of control crossed the demon’s consciousness. Hiding strength where others flashed skin. But discipline was only armor against human frailty, not demonic possession. It visualized her slight frame trembling in resistance – so much effort for nothing. Perfect for shattering. Covered skin… the demon chuckled darkly in Trisha’s throat, is simply unwrapped potential for those who know how to claim it.

And finally, Jason. The demon’s borrowed lips curled in amusement as it considered him. The earnest shopper, fretting over designer labels while oblivion draped the island. So meticulously standard. His phone chatter about luxury and deals screamed fragile normalcy – a life raft he clung to even as darkness churned around him. His attention begins and ends at the checkout counter, the demon registered with cool contempt. No instinct beyond acquisition, no vigilance deeper than snagging a bargain. A creature of predictable cravings, utterly harmless until guided. Jason’s greatest asset was his pleasant, blinkered mediocrity. He was easy terrain. Soft ground for possession. Perfectly primed for the grinding stone. His capture wouldn’t require strategy, merely proximity. He’d walk right into the trap, clutching his ill-gotten Rolex, worried only about showing Trisha his purchases. His harvest would yield a compliant, unremarkable vessel quickly silenced – a serviceable addition to the collection, satisfying if not particularly stimulating for the predator analyzing him.

The trail widened as it neared the jungle's edge. Through a break in the ferns, the demon saw silhouettes moving on the beach below. Luxuriously, possessively, it ran a hand down the powerful line of its thigh, feeling the bunched muscles through Trisha’s hiking shorts. It lingered on the curve, savoring the swell of feminine muscle firm under its touch. A paradox: this vessel’s strength was undeniable, yet it was utterly conquered.

Soon, it thought, the certainty as hard and cold as the volcanic rock beneath its boots. The scent of hibiscus and salt air filled its stolen lungs. The afternoon sun struck Trisha’s hair, igniting the complicated braid in shades of burnished copper. It scanned the vibrant chaos below, redder lips twisting into a smile just as vibrant, and just as empty.

Who will be first? The question carried the weight of fatality.

With a predator’s easy stride, the demon wearing Trisha pushed past the final curtain of vines and stepped onto the main coastal trail back to the suite. The homing signal had been broadcast. The harvest awaited. Soon, the screaming would begin.