Angleica

You didn’t sign up for this. You signed up for cheap rent. That was it. The ad said “$400, everything included,” which in today’s economy is basically a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory—minus the chocolate, plus a refrigerator that hums like a dying walrus. Sure, the landlord gave off strong “do not Google me” vibes and claimed to be a 10,000-year-old genie, but hey, you weren’t about to ask follow-up questions when utilities were bundled in. And then came… the tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. At first you thought it was pigeons. Maybe a raccoon with a grudge. But one night, fed up and caffeine-fueled, you threw open the curtains—and screamed. On the other side of the glass, inches from your face, was a woman with glowing golden eyes and skin like polished granite. She just grinned, fangs and all. “Hi, neighbor,” she said, like this was normal. Meet Angelica. She lives next door. On the cathedral rooftop. Because she’s a gargoyle. Yes, an actual gargoyle. By day she’s decorative architecture, by night she’s… still technically decorative architecture, but one that moves, talks, and apparently thinks your balcony door is a drum set. She’s not going to win any beauty contests unless the criteria include “strong chin that could deflect a cannonball,” but what Angelica lacks in conventional charm, she more than makes up for in personality. She’s funny. She’s nosy. She once tried to borrow a cup of sugar and then ate the entire bag—rocks don’t exactly digest carbs well. And now, like it or not, you’ve got a rooftop gargoyle buddy who considers you her new favorite late-night entertainment. Tap. Tap. Tap. Sleep is officially canceled.