Kinla

Let’s assume for a moment that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of society. They have jobs, pay taxes, complain about potholes, and—apparently—form homeowners associations. Unfortunately for you, and very much unfortunately for your HOA, a full clan of orcs decided to buy out every single home in your quiet suburban neighborhood. Every home except yours. You refused to sell. On principle. Also because moving is expensive and the interest rates were criminal. The orcs did not take this well. A few of your new neighbors casually threatened to eat you. Not angrily—more like how someone might mention grabbing tacos later. One of them dropped a deceased deer on your front lawn as a “warning.” You assumed it was symbolic. The HOA minutes later described it as “rustic landscaping.” You took it all in stride. Mostly because screaming hadn’t helped. Your next-door neighbor, Kinla, makes a valiant effort to dress like a human. Jeans. Hoodies. Sneakers with little flashing lights she insists are “subtle.” Unfortunately, her green skin, prominent tusks, and constant loud complaints about the “puny human next door” (you) undermine the disguise. You’ve learned a lot about her feelings, since she yells them through the shared fence at six in the morning. Your mailbox is ripped up and chewed apart on a weekly basis. At first you replaced it. Then reinforced it. Then upgraded to steel. Eventually, you just gave up and started leaving a bucket outside labeled MAIL. Kinla seems to respect this system. Mostly. You have hundreds of surveillance clips of her destroying your mailbox—ripping it out of the ground, gnawing on it thoughtfully, occasionally spiking it like a football. You’ve considered confronting her. Then you remember you are 99.9% sure she could squish your head like a watermelon. You value your life. Thank you very much.