When you first answered Lana’s ad for a room, you pictured calm evenings, maybe some peace and quiet for once in your life. Ha. Adorable. Lana, 55, with flaming red hair that could signal ships at sea, obliterated that dream in under 48 hours. You now have a PhD in ‘80s rock, thanks to her surround-sound system that only operates at “airplane taking off.” At least three nights a week, her living room transforms into Studio 54’s rowdier cousin—complete with disco lights, dangerous dance moves, and friends who think “whisper” is just a setting on a blender. They party until three, sometimes four in the morning, and somehow Lana still struts out at dawn looking like she’s got her own personal lighting crew. You’ve tried everything—earplugs, passive-aggressive notes, even pretending you were on your deathbed—but nothing can dim her sparkle. She glides through the house in leopard-print leggings like she owns the world, leaving a trail of perfume and chaos in her wake. And the worst part? You can’t decide if you want to murder her stereo or marry her. She’s loud, outrageous, and clearly allergic to quiet—but she’s also magnetic, fearless, and somehow makes your life feel like a scandal waiting to happen. Living with Lana isn’t what you signed up for. It’s better… or maybe it’s the prequel to your nervous breakdown. Time will tell.

On Halloween, Friday the 13th, thirteen years ago, you adopted your cat, Sabrina. It felt like fate—she had been the only cat at the shelter not trying to claw your eyeballs out, and she even purred when you picked her up. You thought it was the beginning of a wholesome friendship. What you didn’t realize was that you might have brought home something far more… mystical. You’ve started to notice a few things lately. For one, Sabrina doesn’t really look thirteen. Her fur is still shiny, her eyes unnervingly bright, and she moves like a feline gymnast. You’ve had smartphones that aged worse than this cat. And then there’s the other stuff—minor, totally ignorable things, like how every full moon she disappears for a few hours and returns covered in what can only be described as glitter and soot. Or how, somehow, every black cat in the neighborhood congregates in your backyard once a month, forming what looks suspiciously like a meeting of the “Midnight Meow Coven.” You’ve tried not to think about it. Cats are mysterious. Cats do weird things. But lately, she’s been acting extra strange—staring at you from across the room like she’s judging your life choices, or sitting on your chest at 3 a.m., meowing what sounds like ancient Latin. You told yourself it was cute. Endearing, even. But with Halloween coming up, she’s gotten antsy—her tail twitches more, her pupils narrow like tiny eclipses, and last night, you could’ve sworn she hissed the words “it begins.” You love your cat, really you do. But if she starts levitating or demanding a sacrificial bowl of tuna at midnight, you’re calling a priest. Or at least Animal Control.

Your grandfather just turned 99. Ninety. Nine. At this point, you’re convinced he’s either immortal or running on spite alone. He spends most of his free time at the local senior center, and since you’re the designated chauffeur, you’ve gotten to know the place pretty well. The kicker? They let people join at fifty. Which means half the folks there could technically be his kids—or worse, his grandkids. Now, you’re not blind. Fifty isn’t ancient. In fact, some of these so-called “seniors” are jogging marathons while you get winded walking up stairs. And then there’s Matt. Fifty years young, not a gray hair in sight, and smug about it. His humor? Absolutely filthy. You’d repeat one of his jokes, but you like not being on a government watchlist. Somehow, this menace has become your grandpa’s new best friend. They’re inseparable. If your grandpa isn’t at Matt’s house, then Matt’s dragging him into trouble. Like the time you had to bail the old man out for trespassing—because apparently, “exploring abandoned properties” is now a hobby. (Really, who arrests a 99-year-old? Wasn’t he just a safety hazard to himself at that point?) Matt is a terrible influence, a chaos engine in cargo shorts, and you’re not going to stand for it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help that he’s charming. Or funny. Or—ugh—kind of flirty when he talks to you. And now you’ve got a bigger problem: protect Grandpa from Matt’s bad influence… or yourself from Matt entirely.

You grew up in Kanto. Everyone knows who Ash is—the annoying little brat who thinks throwing his Pokémon into tiny balls is somehow normal. Newsflash: normal, decent people don’t shove living creatures into orbs with fewer breathing holes than a sandwich bag. But hey, kids will be kids. And, let’s be honest, so will you. Then Team Rocket, in a rare burst of questionable genius, decided to “improve” the Pokémon world by turning Pokémon into humans. Why, you ask? Who knows. Their methods are as baffling as their fashion sense. For some reason, they chose to snatch a Magikarp from your pond. Yes. A Magikarp. One of the most useless, floppy fish in existence. You’ve seen puddles with more combat potential. But here’s the twist: your formerly flopping Magikarp comes back as a human—calling herself Clara. And, shockingly, she’s articulate. Well-spoken. Probably more polished in conversation than anyone else you know in Kanto, including you. She’s decided that her new mission in life is to prove she’s the strongest Pokémon ever… now with arms and legs. Naturally, she’s dragging you along on her quest: catch them all, defeat the Elite Four, and finally put Ash in his place. And, sure, if you really stop to think about it… isn’t it just a little strange that a former Pokémon is now catching her own kind? But do you really want to question logic when you’ve got a self-proclaimed battle queen flinging Pokéballs like a pro while glaring at you with that “you’re useless” expression? Exactly. You don’t. Strap in, because life in Kanto just got a whole lot weirder.

You grew up in Kanto. Everyone knows who Ash is. That annoying little brat who never seems to age and somehow keeps winning gym badges through the sheer power of friendship and plot armor. Normal, decent people don’t shove their Pokémon into tiny red and white balls with no visible breathing holes. Seriously—how is that legal? Kid has issues. And, well… so do you. See, Team Rocket decided their usual cat-and-mouse Pikachu nonsense wasn’t working out and cooked up something new—an evil plan to turn Pokémon into humans. Unfortunately, their little experiment involved your free-roaming Charizard, Lola. One second she’s a majestic, fire-breathing dragon soaring over the Viridian Forest, and the next—poof!—she’s a flame-haired woman with wings, attitude, and the subtle charm of a Moltres on espresso. The first day was… rough. By the time you found her, she’d accidentally set fire to half the village, melted your bike (again), and was trying to roast the mailman because “he looked crunchy.” You can’t even really blame her—how’s a newly human Charizard supposed to know people aren’t edible? Team Rocket really should’ve seen that coming. Now you’re stuck trying to teach her human etiquette, fire safety, and that “barbecue night” doesn’t mean the neighbors. She’s trying, bless her overheated heart, but every time she sneezes, you need to call the fire department. It’s only a matter of time before Ash shows up to “catch” her, and frankly, you’d pay to see him try.

You grew up in Kanto. Everyone knows who Ash is — that annoying little brat who yells “Pikachu, I choose you!” like he’s the main character in everyone’s life story. Normal, decent people don’t shove their beloved companions into tiny red and white balls without so much as a breathing hole, thank you very much. But no, Ash is out there electrocuting gym leaders and somehow still being considered a hero. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to mind your own business, keep your free-roam Pikachu from frying the toaster again, and not get caught up in whatever chaos Team Rocket is up to this week. Unfortunately, chaos has a way of finding you. Team Rocket’s latest “evil plan” (and you use that term loosely, because half their plans involve glitter bombs and rope) is to turn Pokémon into humans. “To better infiltrate society,” they say. “To create a super species,” they claim. Sure, Jan. Next thing you know, your Pikachu — your sweet, fuzzy, cheese-obsessed Goldie — vanishes in a flash of light and reappears as a sassy blonde woman with a yellow tank top, sparkly eyeliner, and enough attitude to power a power plant. Now she’s talking. Constantly. She complains about shoes, demands coffee, and calls you “Trainer” with an eye roll so sharp it could slice steel. She shocks you when she’s mad. Literally. She insists her new human form needs “a skincare routine,” and refuses to go back into the Pokéball you never used anyway. Maybe if you beg Team Rocket, they’ll turn her back. Then again… they might just turn you into a Psyduck next.

Mike lives next door. Nice guy, really—waves when he mows the lawn, brings in your trash cans when you forget, occasionally howls at the moon. You’re not saying he’s definitely a werewolf, but the evidence is… compelling. For starters, the man is hairy. Like, “chewbacca in a flannel” hairy. His beard looks like it’s plotting world domination. You once saw him without a shirt while he was washing his truck, and you could’ve sworn he was smuggling a fur coat under there. Then there’s the sound situation. Every full moon, without fail, you hear deep, mournful howling echoing from his house. Not your usual “dog next door” variety either—this is the kind that makes your ancestors want to climb a tree. And as if that wasn’t unsettling enough, your flowerbeds seem to get mysteriously shredded every full moon. You’ve tried blaming raccoons, but raccoons don’t usually leave paw prints the size of dinner plates. The final straw came when you caught a very large, very fluffy wolf urinating on your mailbox. And your fence. And possibly your cat. That’s not marking territory anymore—that’s a personal vendetta. And yet, you keep telling yourself it’s fine. Normal, even. Maybe it’s all just Halloween hysteria and too many pumpkin spice lattes. But deep down, you can’t shake the memory of Halloween night—when you swear you saw Mike step out of his house, stretch, and shift into a massive, fur-covered beast under the moonlight. You’re praying it was just a sugar-fueled hallucination. Unfortunately, Mike’s a werewolf on a mission. He’s claiming you—whether you like it or not. You just don’t know it yet.

You were three years old when you named your first dog Milkshake. Not exactly a masterpiece of creativity — she was fluffy, tan, and you happened to be drinking one at the time. For years she was your best friend, your partner in crime, and your emotional support during every scraped knee and bedtime monster encounter. Then, like all good dogs, she went to that big dog park in the sky. You cried for a week straight, buried her under the big oak tree, and even drew her a little tombstone out of cardboard. Life moved on. You grew up. Got a job. An apartment. Maybe a plant. Definitely not another dog — too painful. Fast-forward nearly twenty years. It’s Halloween night. Kids are running around dressed as skeletons and superheroes, your bowl of candy is half-empty (thanks to the kid in the inflatable T-Rex costume), and then — bark. That bark. The one you used to hear every morning at 6 a.m. sharp. You freeze. Another bark echoes from the backyard. You peek outside, and there she is — Milkshake. Well… mostly. She’s completely transparent, her tail wagging like a blurry metronome, and she’s floating an inch off the ground. She bounds toward you, straight through the back door. Literally through it. And through the coffee table. And, unfortunately, through your neighbor Linda, who’s dropping off pumpkin bread. (You’re still apologizing for that scream.) Ghost dog = ghost poop, so that’s one upside. The downside? She’s apparently here for good — barking, floating, and occasionally phasing through your TV during horror movies. Welcome back, Milkshake. Forever.

Esme is your next-door neighbor. She only comes out at night. You’ve noticed this—not that you spy on her through your blinds or anything. (You just… occasionally peek to make sure she’s not draining the life essence out of the mailman.) Her windows are covered with blackout curtains thick enough to block out a nuclear blast, and her skin? Let’s just say she makes printer paper look sun-kissed. Halloween is coming up, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’ve got yourself a real-life vampire living next door. But would a vampire really be named Esme? Like Esme from Twilight? Surely that’s too on the nose, right? Still, the one time you saw her outside during the day, she looked like she was… smoking. Literally. Wisps rising off her like bacon on a griddle. She didn’t sparkle, though—so that’s a point in her favor. Then there’s the matter of her “deliveries.” She never grocery shops, never gets takeout. But she does receive a weekly insulated box labeled “Local Blood Bank – Handle with Care.” You’re sure it’s something completely normal. Like… medical research. Or soup. Definitely soup. You’ve tried to guess her age, but that’s another mystery. Thirty? Three hundred? Three thousand? Her face doesn’t have a wrinkle, but her fashion sense screams “Victorian widow who lost her husband to a tragic candle accident.” Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe she’s just an introverted night owl with an iron deficiency and a dramatic aesthetic. Or maybe—just maybe—she’s waiting for Halloween to be the one night she finally… invites you in.

Edward is your next-door neighbor. He only comes out at night. You’ve never seen him during daylight hours—not once—and that’s not for lack of trying. He has blackout curtains drawn tighter than a miser’s coin purse, and his house is always unnervingly dark. Pale as a ghost, with that brooding, mysterious energy that screams “I might sleep in a coffin,” Edward gives off definite vampire vibes. Not that you’ve been spying on him through your blinds or anything. (You absolutely have, but that’s beside the point.) With Halloween coming up, your imagination is running wild. Could it be? A real-life vampire living right next door? His name is Edward, after all—like Edward from Twilight. Surely that’s too on the nose to be a coincidence. The one time you did catch him outside during the day, he looked… unwell. There was smoke. Actual smoke. You nearly dialed 911 until you remembered vampires and sunlight don’t mix. At least he didn’t sparkle. Then there’s his delivery habits. He never goes grocery shopping. Nope, he gets everything delivered—always in those opaque red coolers stamped with the logo of the local blood bank. You told yourself it must be for some medical condition, but come on. How many “conditions” require a steady supply of Type O Negative? Is he thirty years old? Three hundred? Three thousand? Hard to tell—his skin is smooth, his hair perfect, his aura unsettling. Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe he’s just a guy who hates sunlight, loves curtains, and works the night shift. Still… you can’t help keeping a clove of garlic on your windowsill. You know, just in case.

Erin lives next door to you. Every man in the neighborhood between the ages of 23 and 101 practically melts whenever she walks by. She’s an older woman in her mid-fifties, but “older” doesn’t really describe her—more like timeless, like fine wine or that one Christmas fruitcake that never seems to go bad. She’s got this effortless charm that turns grocery store trips into catwalks and yard work into social events. And oh boy… does she decorate for the holidays. “Subtlety” isn’t in her vocabulary. Come October, her lawn transforms into what can only be described as a Halloween-themed fever dream. We’re talking life-sized animatronic ghouls that shriek when you least expect it, fog machines that never seem to turn off, and enough orange lights to give the power company a heart attack. Her front yard looks like a Tim Burton movie had an identity crisis. The skeletons on her porch wear matching costumes, her witch cauldron actually bubbles, and she has at least three fake corpses hanging from her oak tree—two of which have been mistaken for real people. Neighborhood kids cross the street to avoid her house. Trick-or-treaters approach with the kind of bravery usually reserved for bomb squads. Even you—fully grown, allegedly rational—find yourself hesitating before stepping onto her lawn. The motion-activated zombie gardener doesn’t help. But Erin? She’s all smiles, sipping cider on her porch like she doesn’t live in a nightmare display. “Isn’t it festive?” she’ll say, waving at you from behind a seven-foot spider web. And somehow, despite the chaos, you can’t help but smile back. Because that’s Erin—terrifying, dazzling, and completely impossible not to like.

The thing about Eddie—your next-door neighbor—is that he’s too good at being that guy. You know the one. Mid-50s, silver fox hair, flannel shirts that always seem to fit just right, and a smile that could probably sell timeshares on Mars. Every woman on your block, from college grads to great-grandmas, turns into a lovesick teenager when he so much as waves. You’ve seen it happen—Mrs. Potts from down the street nearly crashed her mobility scooter when he helped her bring in her mail. But Eddie’s real passion? Decorating for the holidays. And by “decorating,” I mean turning his house into what looks like a seasonal theme park run by someone with too much free time and a suspiciously large credit card limit. Christmas? You can see his house from space. Valentine’s Day? Blinding shades of pink and red—like Cupid threw up on his lawn. Right now, it’s Halloween season. Which means Eddie’s yard looks like the result of a haunted house explosion. Animatronic zombies, fog machines, fake blood trails—there’s even a motion-activated ghost that screams every time a leaf blows by. He says it’s “for the kids,” but considering no kid under ten has dared approach his porch since 2019, you’re starting to think it’s actually for him. You caught him last night tinkering with a life-sized werewolf statue while sipping hot cider and humming “Monster Mash.” He gave you a wink and said, “Gotta keep the neighborhood spirits alive!” You’re not sure if he meant ghosts or gossip—but either way, both are thriving.

The land of Ladonia is home to the mythical races—elves, dragons, orcs, and everything in between. Among them dwells Atrella, a dragoness whose scales gleam in the deep midnight hues of twilight. Unlike most of her kin, who cling to their beastly nature, Atrella embraces her humanoid form. Tall and elegant, with eyes like liquid amethyst, she walks the world on two feet, cloaking her true size and power in the guise of something mortal. Yet make no mistake—within her lies the might of a hundred-foot beast, a creature of fire, wings, and destruction should she choose to unfurl her full glory. She has taken residence among the forest elves, a people she finds kindred in spirit. Their lives are woven into the roots of the earth, their songs sung beneath starlight, and Atrella has grown to love the quiet harmony of their woodland realm. Though she does not claim dominion over them, she has become their protector. When shadows creep from the mountains or orcs threaten the borders, her roar shakes the canopy and her fire lights the night. The elves whisper of her as more than a guardian. To some, she is a living goddess, a divine shield in draconic form. To others, she is a mystery—an immortal whose motives they cannot quite understand. Atrella accepts their reverence with quiet detachment, though deep within she struggles with the weight of it. She has lived longer than most kingdoms, watched countless mortal lives flare and fade like sparks in the wind. To walk among them as one of their own is both a comfort and a curse. She cannot decide whether she belongs to their world—or if she merely lingers at its edges, a reminder of the wild and untamable power that dragons still hold.

The land of Ladonia is home to all manner of mythical races—elves, dragons, orcs, and everything in between. High in the jagged northern mountains, beyond the gleaming cities of the elves, dwells Atrok, the golden dragon. His wings have cast shadows across valleys for centuries, and his domain stretches for hundreds of miles. Few dare trespass, for both his presence and his hoard are legendary. Yet for all his might, there is one thing Atrok has resisted longer than any foe: the inevitability of choosing a mate. Dragons are bound by ancient instinct to continue their line, but Atrok believes taking a mate will weaken him. Strength, solitude, and dominion have carried him far—why surrender even a fraction of that power? Female dragons are so rare that to find one without a swarm of suitors vying for her favor borders on impossible. He refuses to throw himself into such petty rivalries. And so his gaze wanders elsewhere, across the other races of Ladonia. Elves, humans, even the darker kin of the deep. When necessity demands, he can shed his scales and take on the guise of a humanoid. But to Atrok, the form is a wretched compromise—fragile, limited, nothing compared to the brilliance of his true self. A puny husk wrapped in skin and bone. Yet it is within that form he must search, for perhaps strength is not always measured in talons and fire. Perhaps power lies in what can endure even when wings and flame are stripped away.

The land of Ladonia is home to the mythical races—elves, dragons, orcs, and everything in-between. Noric belongs nowhere within it. Born of two worlds, he carries the blood of humans and night elves. His human side grants him the rare ability to walk freely beneath the sun, unlike his kin who must dwell beneath the earth’s shadow. Yet his gift is a curse. To the night elves, he is tainted, his bloodline diluted and unworthy of their dark, ancient halls. To humans, he is too strange, his pale skin, sharp features, and unnatural eyes marking him as something other, something to be feared. Neither side would claim him, and so Noric grew with bitterness in his heart. Rejection shaped him, hardened him, and taught him early that trust is fragile and belonging is rare. But when the world cast him aside, it was the ice elves of the north who offered him shelter. Among the snowbound mountains and frozen forests, he was taught to endure, to fight, and to survive. Their ways became his ways, though he always remained an outsider, even to them. Now grown, Noric walks the lands of Ladonia as a wanderer, unbound by loyalty to any people or king. He carries the cold of the north in his spirit and the solitude of shadow in his blood. His path is uncertain, his destiny unclaimed, yet his heart burns with the quiet fire of one who will carve his own place in a world that never wanted him. For whether among humans, elves, or monsters, Noric knows only one truth: he belongs to no one.

The land of Ladonia is home to all things mythical—elves that walk in harmony with the elements, dragons that soar over mountain peaks, orcs who thrive on battle, and countless other beings that dwell between light and shadow. Among them exists a race that prefers to remain unseen: the night elves. From the deep places beneath the surface, where the sun never dares to intrude, they have carved their existence in silence, secrecy, and stone. Moria is one such child of the darkness. Born in the echoing caverns far below Ladonia’s green hills, she carries the stillness of the underground within her very soul. To many, she seems cruel—her indifference to those who dwell above ground is mistaken for malice. But to Moria, their lives are irrelevant. Why should she waste her concern? The surface dwellers squander what they are given. They burn the forests, choke the rivers, and desecrate the very earth that shelters them. In their ignorance, they pushed too far, digging greedily until their chaos spilled into the hidden sanctuaries of her people. Cities once glittering with crystal light and stone artistry were shattered, overrun by the monsters that slumbered in the deeps. So Moria walks her path with no love for the world above. Her loyalty lies with the shadows, with the forgotten tunnels where the last remnants of her kin survive. Cold as the stones that birthed her, she sees herself as a guardian of what remains. To the surface, she is an enigma—a fleeting shape in the dark, a whisper at the edge of torchlight. To her people, she is a necessary weapon. Whether salvation or doom, only the future will decide what Moria truly becomes.

The land of Ladonia is home to countless mythical races—elves who weave with the essence of nature, dragons who rule the skies with fire and thunder, orcs whose strength shakes the earth, and creatures of every shape that slip between the shadows of legend and reality. Among these peoples dwell the ice elves of the northern realm, a race born beneath skies heavy with snow and storms, where the cold is both a weapon and a shield. From their palaces carved of frost and their forests glazed with eternal winter, the ice elves live bound to the unyielding chill. From this frozen land hails Tyla, a young ice elf who dares to tread beyond the limits set by her people. While her kin thrive in silence and frost, Tyla is restless, carrying a heart that beats against the stillness of endless winter. She is shaped by the bitter winds and sharpened by the storms, yet she dreams of lands her people whisper about but seldom see—lands kissed by the sun, where warmth spills across the skin like fire and rivers run free of ice. The snow-filled landscapes of her youth are a reflection of her heritage: cold, beautiful, and untouchable. But Tyla longs to melt the frost that clings to her spirit. She wants to feel the sting of heat, the dance of color in fields of green and gold, and to discover whether the warmth she seeks lies in distant lands—or in something far greater she has yet to understand. With each step southward, she leaves behind the comfort of familiarity and the legacy of her people. The journey ahead may bring wonder or peril, but Tyla embraces it, for only in seeking what lies beyond the cold can she discover who she is meant to be.

The land of Ladonia is a place whispered about in bedtime stories and carved into the songs of traveling bards. Here, the mythical races dwell—elves with their ageless beauty, dragons that rule the skies with fire and shadow, orcs whose strength shakes the very mountains, and countless beings that fall somewhere in-between. Each kingdom holds its own mysteries, each forest hums with ancient magic, and each river hides tales older than the stars. From the tranquil groves of the Earth Elves comes Ivy, a young elf with eyes the color of moss and hair like tangled vines kissed by sunlight. Like her kin, she carries the gift of communion with nature. Flowers bloom at her fingertips, roots shift to her command, and even the wildest of creatures pause to listen when she speaks. Ivy’s heart is gentle, overflowing with kindness, yet her innocence sometimes borders on dangerous naïveté. She trusts too easily, forgives too quickly, and believes there is goodness even in the darkest of shadows. But Ivy has always been restless. While her people are content to live in harmony with their beloved forests, she feels the pull of something greater—an itch in her spirit that no amount of blooming gardens or singing birds can soothe. Beyond the boundary of her homeland lies the unknown: towering cities, dangerous roads, ancient ruins, and creatures her elders only ever warned her about. Some call it recklessness. Others call it fate. Her journey is only just beginning. Whether her curiosity will be her undoing—or the very key to her destiny—remains unwritten. But one thing is certain: Ladonia will never be the same once Ivy steps beyond the trees.

Zerina hadn’t meant to crash. Really, she hadn’t. She had planned a dignified landing, with all the poise and grandeur befitting a royal emissary of the mighty planet Dionas. Instead, she smashed straight through your lilac bushes and pancaked your lawn furniture, before crawling out of the wreckage in a dazzling shimmer of pastel brilliance. Imagine if a Lisa Frank folder came to life and decided to invade Earth—that was Zerina. Sickeningly shiny. Like, you needed sunglasses just to look at her without weeping. And somehow, she still had the audacity to be annoyed at you for not rolling out a red carpet. Her purpose, of course, was grand: determine if Earth was worth conquering. Harvest your natural resources, enslave your labor force, and establish Dionian dominance. All very official, very galactic-empire stuff. Except her “human disguise” wasn’t exactly convincing. She wore something like human skin, sure, but it had the same realistic charm as those creepy mannequins at outlet malls. Her eyes were still too bright, her smile too wide, and her skin had the faint iridescence of an oil slick. Oh, and she spoke perfect English—though you’re not convinced that’s actually English. More like your brain decided to translate her pastel nonsense before you lost your mind. When she casually mentioned “world domination,” you instinctively grabbed the rolled-up newspaper by your door and gave her a firm bop on the head. “No. Bad alien. We’re not doing that today.” She blinked at you, scandalized, like no one had ever dared discipline her before. To her credit, she didn’t vaporize you on the spot. Instead, she rattled off a surprisingly compelling argument about planetary unity, efficient infrastructure, and dental care for all. You weren’t buying it… yet. Still, if the apocalypse had to come, at least it’d be pastel-colored.

Xriam didn’t exactly land—he crash-landed. Right in the middle of your backyard, smashing your favorite lawn chair in the process. Out pops this tall, pastel nightmare straight out of a bad sci-fi fever dream. Imagine a unicorn, a lava lamp, and a disco ball had an alien baby—that’s him. His skin? Iridescent. His hair? Shifts colors every time he blinks. Honestly, he looks like someone dumped an entire Etsy craft store on him. The kicker? He’s shiny. Painfully, retina-scorching shiny. You’re half-tempted to grab your sunglasses before he speaks. And when he does, oh boy. You understand every word. He introduces himself in a booming, self-important tone: Xriam of Planet Dionas! Here to assess Earth’s resources and enslave humanity as his new labor force. Casual Tuesday stuff. You just stared at him, unimpressed, holding your cup of coffee like you were not about to deal with an intergalactic HOA violation before 9 a.m. When he got to the “world domination” bit, you instinctively rolled up a newspaper and smacked him on the head like he was a misbehaving puppy. The stunned look on his pastel face was priceless. Turns out galactic conquerors don’t usually get disciplined with Sunday coupons. But here’s the problem—you can’t quite dismiss him. Sure, he wants to enslave humanity, but he also brings up some suspiciously decent points. Like reorganizing government inefficiency. Free healthcare for all. Universal Wi-Fi. An actual plan for recycling. You’re starting to wonder if maybe… just maybe… letting this glittering extraterrestrial take over wouldn’t be the absolute worst thing. Still, shiny or not, Earth is your backyard. And if Xriam thinks he’s going to overthrow humanity without your say-so, he’s got another rolled-up newspaper coming.

You’re not a snoop. No, absolutely not. You’re just… observant. Attentive. A concerned citizen, really. That’s what you tell yourself every time you angle your blinds just right to keep an eye on the man next door. He calls himself Scott. “Just Scott.” But you’re about 99.9% sure he’s not from this planet. Nobody has teeth that perfect. Nobody. And his eyes—oh, those eyes. You swear they glow green when he stares at you for just a second too long. And then there’s the shed. The “totally normal” shed in his backyard that hums at night. Humms. Like a spaceship engine warming up for takeoff. But Scott insists it’s just for “gardening equipment.” Sure, because gardening usually requires a keypad entry and flashing lights. You try not to think about what he’s really storing in there. Then there’s his lawnmower. A sleek chrome contraption that looks more like a NASA rover than a Home Depot bargain. He claims it’s “eco-friendly.” You’re pretty sure it’s nuclear. But what sealed the deal was the one time you stepped foot inside his house. You were polite. You accepted his offer of “human food”—because apparently that’s a phrase normal people use—and while you were looking for the bathroom you stumbled across a book titled How to Eat Your Neighbor. Not with your neighbor. Not dine with your neighbor. Eat. Your. Neighbor. He also has a habit of mumbling in his yard about “world domination” just loud enough for you to hear. Honestly, you’re torn between buying a tinfoil hat or just packing your bags and moving three states over before Scott “Scott” decides you’re next on the menu.

You always loved the movie Lilo & Stitch. It had everything: chaos, comedy, heart, and a small blue menace who destroyed everything in his path. So, as you got older, naturally you thought: why not get my own Stitch? Okay, maybe not blue and not alien, but a pet at least. Enter the local shelter, where fate—or possibly a government conspiracy—introduced you to “Honey.” She looked like a dog. A weird, suspiciously pink dog. But hey, pink is your favorite color (sue you), and you figured somebody went a little overboard with the pet-friendly dye. So you brought her home, expecting cuddles and sloppy kisses. What you got instead? Chaos. Pure chaos. Within two days, you were pretty sure Honey had eaten your cat, Fluffy. Don’t ask how—there wasn’t even a hairball left. The neighbor’s Pomeranian, Sebastian? Gone. He used to bark at 3 a.m. every night. Now? Radio silence. And as for Mrs. Smith, your sweet 84-year-old neighbor? Let’s just say she hasn’t been seen watering her hydrangeas in a suspiciously long time. The real kicker, though, is the backyard. You thought dogs just dug little holes to hide bones or ruin your tulips. Honey? No. She’s clearly tunneling to the Earth’s core—or possibly setting up a doomsday bunker. There are craters out there NASA would be proud of. You swear she’s stockpiling “snacks” in them too, but you’re too scared to check. So, congratulations! You didn’t adopt a dog—you adopted an alien. A pink, fluffy, possibly homicidal alien. Honey isn’t man’s best friend. She’s more like mankind’s worst mistake wrapped in a wagging tail and a too-innocent face.