#monster reader au

˖°࿐pilot: the unlikely alliance ˖°࿐

Namjoon was freaking out.

Not the dignified, angelic kind of concern they teach you in orientation—the calm, glowing, “it is what it is” sort of thing. No. This was the sweaty-palmed, wide-eyed, “oh my God, I am going to get fired from Heaven” kind of panic.

He had looked away for two minutes. Two bloody minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. The time it takes for a kettle to almost boil or for Park Jimin to cause catastrophic levels of chaos. And in those seconds… his kid disappeared.

Like—poof.

One second she was there, happily reading, breathing, existing. The next second she was nowhere. Not behind him. Not beside him. Not even doing the little kid thing where they hide and giggle behind curtains.

Gone.

This had never happened before. In his 200 years of existence—two centuries of guarding babies, toddlers, teenagers, and once a 35-year-old man-child who skateboarded without a helmet—he had never lost a kid. Not once.

And yet here he was.

It was all because of that sneaky, pink airhead Park Jimin. Namjoon was sure of it. He was the root of all his problems. Always. Jimin had come floating in, smelling of strawberries and disobedience, distracting him with some “urgent celestial paperwork” (which turned out to be a doodle of a duck in a suit). And during that tiny distraction—gone. Kid lost. Record ruined.

Bet he plotted this, Namjoon thought miserably. Busy Namjoon with nonsense so his sparkly clean record gets dirtied by irresponsibility. Then Jimin will finally be able to say, “See? You’re not that perfect.”

No. No. Absolutely not. This could not be happening.

He needed to find her. Before his superiors found out. Before his perfect file got a red line across it. Before… before his kid got hurt.

He swallowed. His wings twitched behind him—they always did that when he was nervous. They were big and white and glowy and completely, infuriatingly useless.

Think, Namjoon. Think.

Where could a little seven-year-old have actually gone?

He pictured her—tiny ponytail, mismatched socks, eyes too big for her face, the way she always stuck her tongue out when she coloured. She wasn’t the type to go running off recklessly. She was a good kid. A really good kid. She said please and thank you and “good morning, mister angel” even though he told her not to call him that.

So where would she go?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Namjoon started searching.

And when Namjoon searched, he really searched.

He checked every public restroom in a three-mile radius—even the ones with scary graffiti and no toilet seats. He cleared out a museum because he thought he saw a tiny shoe in the Ancient Egypt section (it was not her; it was an exhibit). He stopped an ice cream van mid-drive and interrogated the ice cream man like a detective in a crime drama.

“Have you seen a little girl? About this tall? Smells like cotton candy?”

The man blinked. “This is a Mr Whippy, mate.”

He looked through parks, toy stores, and libraries. He questioned street performers. He asked a pigeon. He even looked through every trash can along his way—every trash can—because kids can be weird and sometimes they crawl into places they shouldn’t.

The thing about Namjoon—the guardian angel—was that although he had wings, they were only for show. Purely decorative. Like the gold cutlery humans bought but never used. He couldn’t actually fly. So he had to do all that searching on foot.

And by the time he was done looking through every trash can in the city, five whole days had gone by.

Five. Days.

His kid was still missing.

To make matters worse, if she had been kidnapped—which he was now strongly starting to suspect, because what normal disappearance lasted five days—then he had completely missed the golden hour to get her back. Angels had guidelines about this. There were PowerPoints. There were seminars. He’d missed it.

Namjoon was truly, fully, heavenly-committee-level fucked.

His brain started going to the worst places. Angels were supposed to be composed—but Namjoon was a soft one. An overthinker.

Oh my God, what if his kid was somewhere tied up and her kidnappers were requesting a huge ransom?

He didn’t even have money. You didn’t get paid to be an angel. You got grace points. You couldn’t trade grace points for cash. He’d tried.

Or worse… what if they were forcing her to eat broccoli? She hated broccoli. She once cried because it was “a tree and trees are friends.”

No. No. No.

This could not be happening.

What if… what if… what if she was dead and lying in a pool of her own blood?! 

He slapped his cheeks. No. He refused to let his brain go there.

There was only one place remaining for Namjoon to look.

He had left it for last on purpose. Like when you do a maths exam—you try every possible formula and leave the question you’re certain is definitely wrong for last. This was that kind of scenario.

Her house.

He didn’t want to check there because if she wasn’t outside, she should be home, and if she wasn’t home… then something was really wrong.

So Namjoon took the bus—because once again, he could not fly—and headed to the kid’s house. He sat stiffly in the plastic seat, wings squished and folded as much as possible, trying not to glow too much so humans wouldn’t stare. A toddler across from him waved. Namjoon waved back weakly.

When he arrived, he expected noise. Crying, at least. A distressed mother. A panicking father. The butler yelling into a phone. Police tape. Something.

Instead, he was met with silence.

The house—which was usually alive with footsteps and vacuuming and the distant sound of cartoons—was still. Too still. Like it had taken a big breath and held it.

Bewildered, Namjoon checked every room. Kitchen. Study. Guest room. Even the wine cellar. Nothing. He opened a bathroom door very slowly, thinking, If I see a human corpse, I will simply pass away, but it was empty too.

Not a single living soul.

No parents. No annoying butler. No housecleaners. No bodyguards. Not even the house cat.

Something was not right.

He rubbed his chin, wings rustling, and made his way to the place he knew best: his kid’s room.

The moment he opened the door, her smell hit him—that particular mix of cotton candy, bubble bath, and clean laundry. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a soft afternoon light that made the room look warm and quiet. The bed was freshly made, which was strange, because she was not a bed-making child. Toys were thrown in a messy-but-organised way in one corner, like she’d been playing some elaborate game and then vanished mid-story. Her books were in a pretty pile, The Jungle Book left open as if she’d only looked away for a second.

Namjoon sat on the edge of the bed.

It was too big for a little child.

Just like this world.

Where was she? This world was too big for her. Too sharp around the edges. He thought of all the things she could be exposed to—cold, hunger, people who didn’t care about her favourite plushie. He thought of her small hands. He thought of the way she always shared her snacks with him even though, technically, angels didn’t eat.

He felt himself sink into a sad, dramatic pity-party. He was good at those.

He stared at the floor.

He did not stare at the bed.

He should’ve stared at the bed.

Because from under the bed, two long, green, sharp claws shot out and grabbed him by the ankles.

Namjoon looked down slowly, like a man realising too late that he, in fact, should have looked down sooner.

He screamed.

Then, he passed out.

“I told you I should have been the one to approach him.”

“I didn’t think he’d get scared!”

“Obviously he did. You’re hideous. I would get a heart attack every time I see you—only I don’t have a heart.”

“You’re so mean.”

Namjoon’s eyes fluttered open. His head was pounding. His wings were splayed out awkwardly. He was on the floor now. He blinked… and the first thing he saw was claws.

He nearly passed out again.

“Oh, he’s awake—wait, wait, please don’t faint again!” you—the hideous creature, apparently—yelled, scooting back on your… tail? Limbs? Whatever monsters under the bed used.

“So,” Namjoon said slowly, voice full of utter disbelief, “you’re telling me you’re the monster under the bed… and you’re not actually a bad monster.”

You straightened up a little. Up close, you were… well, monstrous. In a cute way. Too many teeth, too many eyes, claws a little too long, but your expression was very much please don’t hate me.

Before Namjoon could process that, someone very small and very fluffy marched forward and planted himself between you and the angel like a bodyguard.

“Hey,” he said, voice deeper than a stuffed toy had any right to have. “Don’t keep looking at her like that. We can’t help how we look.”

Namjoon’s eyes went even wider, which should not have been physically possible. “And you’re the talking favourite plushie?”

“The name’s Kim. Kim Taehyung. A pleasure to meet ya,” Taehyung said, and held out a soft, stuffed hand like this was a business meeting and not a supernatural crime scene.

Namjoon slapped himself with both hands. “I am going crazy.”

“Maybe he’s a little shy, Taehyung. Let’s give him a bit of space,” you said, lowering your claws so you looked less like a threat and more like an anxious roommate.

“Oh my God, I am going crazy,” Namjoon repeated, rubbing his temples. “A talking plushie and an ugly monster.”

You were personally, deeply offended. “He didn’t have to call me ugly,” you muttered.

“Hey!” Taehyung shouted, turning on Namjoon. “That’s funny coming from you, walking sparkly man with wings!”

“Exactly,” you said quickly, seizing your moment. “Having wings is not that normal, you know. And—and for the record, they’re not very pretty!”

Taehyung nodded like a judge. “Burn.”

Namjoon exhaled and tried to sit up. “Alright. I think I can get my head around you… abnormal creatures. I’m not very normal myself to be rational.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, folding his little felt arms. “Your shiny white wings and glittery aura helped us figure that out. Let me guess—guardian angel?”

Namjoon’s mouth fell open. “How—how did you know?”

“It’s Taehyung’s cur—” you started to explain, but Taehyung whipped his head toward you with such a deadly plushie glare that you shut your mouth instantly.

“Right…” Namjoon said, looking between the two of you. A frown pulled at his brows. “Why do I keep feeling like I forgot something?”

“Me too,” you said, blinking all your eyes.

“Yes,” Taehyung said, slow and dramatic, “it feels like I’m forgetting something extremely impor—”

He froze.

You froze.

Namjoon froze.

“KIRA!” all three of you shouted at the same time.

Namjoon looked at you like he’d just found comrades in stupidity. “What, you guys are looking for my kid too?”

“Well, of course,” you said, claws twisting shyly. “My job was mostly to scare her into being a good girl, but I did really like the kid.” Your voice wobbled.

Monsters under the bed had feelings too. Namjoon nodded immediately, because he got that.

“And I—” Taehyung tried to say.

“You don’t need to explain,” Namjoon interrupted, turning to Taehyung. “You’re the favourite plushie for a reason.”

Taehyung’s little stitched mouth twisted. “Do not patronise me, birdy. I am more than a favourite plushie. I am the ultimate plushie.”

“Birdy? Who are you calling birdy, you stuffed little—”

You jumped in before you had to watch an angel bicker with polyester. “Well, if we’re all here for the same purpose, why don’t we form an alliance and search for Kira together?”

You fiddled with your hands, looking at the floor. It was a good idea. Monsters could be shy about good ideas.

Namjoon tilted his head. “I mean, it’s not a bad idea, but how will you two even walk out of here?” he asked, glancing pointedly at your claws and Taehyung’s very obvious plushie-ness.

“That’s true,” Taehyung said, looking down at himself like he’d just remembered he was 80% fluff. “How will you walk out?”

You blinked. “I can just say I’m cosplaying?”

They both gasped.

“What a genius!” Taehyung cried.

Namjoon’s shoulders dropped in relief. “Alright,” he said, trying to look authoritative again even though he’d fainted twice in front of you. “So we have an alliance.”

𓏲﹆ episode one | driver's license ﹆ 𓏲

Namjoon—the guardian angel, Taehyung—the favourite plushie, and you—the monster under the bed—were all huddled together on the floor of your kid’s room like a very small, very confused council of war.

From the hallway, if anyone had looked in, it would’ve seemed serious. 

The curtains were half-drawn, light spilling in soft stripes across the carpet. Namjoon was bent over with a pen in hand, wings folded in tight, brows furrowed in concentration. Taehyung sat at the centre like a tiny, stuffed general presiding over a strategy meeting. You were curled around them, claws tucked in, tail wrapped neatly so you didn’t knock anything over, trying your best to look like a helpful associate and not a hazard.

From far away, it would have looked like you were mapping out a complex rescue mission. Whispering. Plotting. Planning. The fate of a missing child in your hands.

Up close, it was tic-tac-toe.

Taehyung was in charge. Of course he was. He sat on his little plush butt, arms folded, watching the game with the intensity of a man judging a talent show. Namjoon’s tongue was poking slightly out in that way he did when he was stressed, scribbling Xs far more dramatically than necessary. You stared at the paper, all your many eyes locked onto those crooked little grids like this was the most important exam of your life.

In a way, it was.

Because the loser, according to Taehyung’s Very Official Rules, had to get a driver’s license.

It seemed like a reasonable problem at first. How were you planning to find your kid on foot or on public transport only? The city was too big, your legs were too short—or, in your case, too clawed—and angels apparently had a thing called “back pain” now. 

A car made sense. A license made sense. Someone responsible should get it. Someone capable. Someone adult.

The obvious choice would have been Namjoon.

Except Namjoon had quietly—very quietly—admitted that he had failed his driving test three years in a row. Three. Years. In a row. At first you thought he meant three attempts. No. He meant three consecutive years of attempts. There had been cones. There had been a lamppost. There had been, reportedly, very traumatised examiners.

Taehyung was too small. His legs wouldn’t reach the pedals, never mind the brakes, and also he was made of fluff and hope and probably some cursed cotton. The idea of him even seeing over the steering wheel was laughable—Taehyung did not find it laughable. He called it height discrimination.

Which left… you.

You were, well… hideous. As they put it. They didn’t say it to be cruel, not really, but words had a way of crawling under scales and lodging in soft places. 

You knew what you looked like: green skin, too many yellow eyes, claws that scratched the floor if you weren’t careful. You were a creature designed to lurk in shadows and reach out at night, not to sit upright in a driver’s seat with your seatbelt on.

You had all sat there and tried to be mature about it. You had listed out pros and cons on a fresh sheet of paper—Namjoon insisted it would help. 

Pros: Namjoon… could read road signs. Taehyung… had enthusiasm. You… had long legs to reach the pedals. Maybe. 

Cons: Namjoon had apparently once parallel parked into emotional trauma. Taehyung was illegally small. You scared most humans on sight. 

The pros column remained tragically short. The cons column began to look like an essay.

So, naturally, the only sensible way to decide was through a fair, objective, non-biased system.

Tic-tac-toe.

You lost.

There was a long, stunned silence. You stared at the final O drawn over your chance at escape. Taehyung slowly leaned back, little stitched mouth curving into the smuggest smile you had ever seen on a piece of polyester. Namjoon dropped the pen like he’d just finished signing a world peace treaty.

And then, as if they had been holding it in, they both exploded into celebration.

Namjoon and Taehyung cheered like they had just won the World Cup and not a hastily improvised game of tic-tac-toe on a scrap of notebook paper. Taehyung flung his tiny arms in the air and fell over dramatically. Namjoon’s wings fluffed out, scattering a few stray feathers, his glittery aura pulsing with relieved triumph.

You, the hideous monster under the bed, sat there in the middle of their victory noise and realised there was nothing to be done.

You were going to have to get a driver’s license.

On the first day of your driving lessons, you were… determined.

You had even practised what you were going to say in the mirror: Hello, nice to meet you, I am here to learn how to operate a human vehicle, please do not scream.

The driving school had sent a small white car that smelled faintly of air freshener and crushed dreams. Your instructor was a middle-aged woman with glasses slightly too big for her face and a high-visibility vest that screamed “I’ve seen things”. She stood waiting by the driver’s door, clipboard in hand.

“Hello!” she said briskly, all professional warmth. “You must be—”

Then you stepped out from behind the hedge.

Her sentence did not get the chance to finish.

You had even tried to make yourself look approachable. You kept your claws close to your sides, tucked your tail away, lowered your shoulders and attempted what you thought was a gentle, non-threatening smile. 

Unfortunately, with your too many yellow eyes and too many teeth, the effect was less gentle and more I am here to haunt your bloodline.

The instructor’s eyes travelled from your feet to your face in slow, dawning horror.

Her clipboard slipped from her fingers.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “Oh, no.”

Then she swayed, folded like badly constructed flat-pack furniture, and fainted on the spot.

The lesson was cancelled.

Namjoon spent the rest of the afternoon apologising to the driving school over the phone, pacing up and down the kitchen, wings twitching with every “Yes, of course,” and “No, she is not part of a prank show,” while you sat at the table with your chin in your claws, feeling like you had kicked a puppy.

“It’s not your fault,” he kept saying, covering the receiver with one hand. “Humans faint all the time. Low blood sugar. Stress. Iron deficiency.”

You were fairly sure it was none of those things.

Taehyung, lying face-down on the table like a retired celebrity, lifted his head just to mutter, “One down,” and then flopped dramatically again.

On the second day, they sent a different instructor.

This one was an old man in his sixties. He wore a kind face, a bright cardigan, and the air of someone who had survived teenagers learning to drive and believed he could therefore survive anything.

He could not.

He smiled at first, shuffling forward with his keys. “You must be my eleven-o’clock,” he said cheerfully, peering around the car. “Don’t worry, I’m very patient with ner—”

You stepped into view.

He froze.

His eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again as he seemed to run rapidly through several mental folders: student, prank, Halloween costume, demon, actual demon, afterlife, imminent death.

“Ah,” he whispered hoarsely, clutching his chest. “You’ve… come for me.”

You blinked. “No? I’ve come to learn—”

He let out a strangled noise, staggered back against the car, and slid down it, gasping. You stared, panicking, all your eyes going even rounder.

“I’m not the grim reaper,” you tried to explain helplessly as Namjoon sprinted over from the doorstep, phone already in hand. “I’m not even on that department’s mailing list—”

Namjoon called an ambulance. The lesson was, once again, cancelled.

The old man survived, thankfully, though the driving school strongly suggested over email that perhaps their instructors were not the right “fit” for your “needs,” and also had you considered online theory tests instead?

You crawled back under the bed that night and did not come out for a very long time.

By the third morning, Taehyung had enough.

“This is ridiculous,” he declared, standing on the bed like a tiny stuffed revolutionary. “We can’t keep knocking out the national supply of driving instructors.”

“It’s not her fault,” Namjoon said automatically, though he was pacing again, glitter dusting off his feathers with every agitated turn. “They’re just… startled.”

“Startled is when you see a spider,” Taehyung snapped. “This is mass fainting.”

He hopped off the bed, marched to the mistress’ wardrobe—your kid’s mother, who had impeccable taste and also no idea that her closet was about to be raided by a sentient toy—and threw the doors open with all the drama of a soap opera reveal.

“Operation Make Her Less Terrifying,” he announced. “Step one: new outfit. These rags have to go.”

You looked down at yourself. Your clothes were more like suggestions—torn fabric, hand-me-down scraps from forgotten nightmares. They had seen better decades.

Taehyung disappeared into the sea of silk blouses, dresses, coats and expensive scarves with a determined grunt. Hangers clinked. Shoes thumped. Once, something sequined flew out and hit Namjoon in the face.

“What about this?” Taehyung’s muffled voice cried from inside. “Too dramatic? Not dramatic enough?”

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re preparing her for a driving lesson, not a music video.”

Eventually Taehyung emerged holding an armful of clothes: a long coat, a soft jumper, a pair of trousers that looked vaguely your size, and a scarf he insisted would “tie the look together”.

With different clothes on, you did look… better. Or at least less like a cryptid emerging from an urban legend. 

The coat hung nicely over your shoulders. The scarf distracted a little from the fact that your skin was a deep, unnatural green. Your too-many-yellow eyes were still very much present. Your black claws, even partially tucked into sleeves, were still very much clawing.

Taehyung circled you critically, tapping his plush chin. “Fashionable,” he decided. “In a terrifying way. But like… high fashion terrifying.”

Namjoon was not convinced. He kept muttering under his breath as he paced from one side of the room to the other, wings rustling.

“We’re never going to get anywhere at this rate,” he said for the fiftieth time. “We need that license. We need a car. We need to move. We need to find Kira. We should’ve found her by now.”

“We wouldn’t be in this position if you could actually fly, you useless birdy,” Taehyung shot back, hands on his nonexistent hips.

“I told you, they’re decorative!” Namjoon snapped. “It’s in the contract!”

Their bickering rose and fell like background music—useless birdy, overstuffed pillow, winged hazard, glorified keychain—until you were gently herded out the door and into your third attempt at a driving lesson.

Your third instructor was a man in his late forties with a receding hairline and the wary expression of someone who had read the driving school’s internal notes and did not believe a word of them, but was being paid anyway.

He stood beside the car, clipboard held like a shield. When you approached, his eyes did the now-familiar journey: shoes, coat, scarf, face.

There was a beat of silence.

His throat bobbed.

“Good… morning,” he said finally, in a voice that wanted very badly to be calm. “You must be my ten-thirty.”

You waited for the fainting. The collapse. The clutching of the chest. You were almost bracing yourself to catch him this time.

It did not happen.

He did not faint.

He did not have a cardiac arrest.

He only tightened his grip on the clipboard and took a very quiet, very deliberate breath.

Progress.

The lesson was… surprisingly quiet.

You settled into the driver’s seat, claws careful on the steering wheel, every muscle tense with concentration. The instructor gave calm, clipped instructions, his tone so measured it almost felt like he was narrating a documentary.

“Check your mirrors. Yes. Indicator on. Gently… gently… that’s it. Very good.”

Every so often, he would sneak a glance at you—in the mirrors, in the reflection of the window, in the metallic gleam of the dashboard. His eyes would flick to your profile, taking in the green skin, the too many eyes, the way your claws tapped nervously. Then he would look firmly back at the road, as if reminding himself that he liked being alive and this was his job.

You tried your best to be the ideal student. You obeyed every instruction. You did not roar, hiss, or drip anything alarming onto the gearstick. You only stalled the car three times, which you considered a personal victory.

At the end of the lesson, you pulled up neatly outside the house. The instructor scribbled something on his sheet, still not quite looking at you.

“Well,” he said after a second, clearing his throat, “that… was better than I expected.”

You chose to take that as high praise.

You paid in cash—notes that Taehyung had “borrowed” from Kira’s piggy bank with the solemn promise that “this is an investment for the future,” even though he had also tried to keep some back for snacks.

A couple more lessons followed with the same instructor. Each time, he looked a little less like a man confronting his own mortality and a little more like someone merely teaching a deeply unusual student. Your turns grew smoother. Your parking less chaotic. Your confidence, very slowly, crawled out from under the bed with you.

After a handful of sessions and only one minor incident with a hedge, you finally felt ready.

Ready to take your exam.

Taehyung told you time and time again—so many times you were starting to hear it in your sleep—that if you failed your test, he would cut you off the family tree.

“You’re not even on it yet,” he’d say, dramatically perched on the headboard like a tiny, judgemental gargoyle. “You’re pencilled in on the side. Fail this, and I erase you. Gone. Vanished. Poof. Uninvited from Christmas dinner.”

You weren’t related. There was no actual family tree. If there had been, it would have been very confusing to draw: one overworked angel, one emotionally unstable monster, one sentient plushie, and a missing seven-year-old. 

Still, somehow, the idea of being erased from Taehyung’s imaginary tree pinched a little.

Namjoon, on the other hand, just nodded encouragingly every time the test was mentioned, his whole aura vibrating with something that could only be described as glittery hope.

This was not metaphorical.

There was still literal glitter in your matted hair from a motivational speech. No matter how much you shook your head or scratched at your scalp, the tiny flecks clung on. Whenever Namjoon stood near you, the halo around him caught the light and reflected it back at you, like the two of you were a badly coordinated disco ball.

“You’ve got this,” he kept saying, straightening your scarf before you left. “You’re ready. Just breathe. And don’t hit anything.”

“Or anyone,” Taehyung added cheerfully. “Especially old people. They’re fragile. Like him.” He jabbed a plush thumb at Namjoon.

You were going to pass.

You had decided that. You knew you would. You had done the lessons. You had driven in circles around quiet streets. You had practiced three-point turns until you could do them with only minimal screaming. Today was the day the universe finally chose to be kind.

The test centre was an unimpressive building with faded posters about road safety and a coffee machine that sounded like it had trauma. You sat in a plastic chair in the waiting area, claws clasped in your lap, trying not to shed on the floor. Humans came and went, glancing at you and then very pointedly looking away again. One boy dropped his theory notes when he caught sight of your eyes and just… left.

Your examiner appeared in a soft cardigan and sensible shoes. She looked like someone’s grandmother and also like she had absolutely no time for nonsense. Her hair was pinned back in a neat bun. Her expression was neutral in that terrifying way only elderly women and very experienced teachers could manage.

She did not flinch when she saw you. Her gaze slid over your coat, your scarf, your green skin, your many eyes… and then settled calmly on her clipboard.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Ms. Patel, I’ll be your examiner today.”

Non-judgemental old lady. Perfect. This was good. This was a sign.

You followed her out to the car, heart thumping, tail tucked in tight. She went through the usual checks in a brisk, professional tone—eye test, licence details, a few questions about road signs. You answered in a small voice, trying not to sound like you were confessing to a crime.

“Alright,” she said at last, settling into the passenger seat and clicking on her seatbelt. “When you’re ready, please start the car and pull out. We’ll turn right at the end of the road.”

You started the car. It didn’t stall. This alone felt like a miracle.

You checked your mirrors. Indicator on. Hands at ten and two. Claws careful. Your instructor’s voice echoed in your head: smooth on the clutch, gentle with the gas, don’t treat the pedal like you’re haunting it.

You rolled slowly toward the end of the driveway and stopped neatly at the sidewalk junction, exactly like you had practised a hundred times. You looked right. You looked left. You looked right again, extra diligently, because you were being watched and graded and possibly judged.

There were no cars. No cyclists. No pedestrians.

For exactly half a second.

As you waited for a gap to merge into the road, there was a sudden dull thump from the front corner of the car.

You jolted.

Ms. Patel jolted.

Something white tapped against the bonnet.

A woman with a walking stick had bumped directly into the car.

A blind woman with a walking stick had bumped into your car before you had even made it onto the road.

She stepped back slightly, feeling along the bonnet with practiced hands, muttering to herself about “who parked this thing right here,” and moved on, completely unharmed, because you had been at a complete stop. Your heart, however, nearly evacuated your body.

“What,” you whispered, all your eyes going huge, “were the chances?”

You could almost feel Namjoon’s distant, horrified intuition pinging from wherever he was waiting, wings seized in sympathetic panic.

Beside you, Ms. Patel closed her eyes for a slow moment. When she opened them, she made a note on her sheet with the kind of tired resignation that suggested she had long ago stopped being surprised by anything.

“Well,” she said calmly, “that will be a fail, I’m afraid. You must ensure the area is clear of pedestrians before moving off, particularly vulnerable ones.”

“We weren’t even moving,” you blurted out weakly.

“The principle still applies,” she replied, in the tone of someone who had given this speech many times and would give it many more. “Please find a safe place to pull over, and we’ll return to the test centre.”

Within one minute—less than sixty seconds—of your exam starting, you had failed.

You had forgotten one very important thing.

Monsters under the bed were unlucky creatures.

Not cursed, not doomed… just quietly, inconveniently unlucky. It was in the job description. You invited disaster in small ways: creaking floorboards, flickering lights, socks going missing, alarm clocks not ringing. Apparently, this also extended to vulnerable pedestrians appearing out of nowhere at the exact worst moment.

By the time you pulled back into the test centre car park, your stomach felt like it had sunk somewhere around your knees. Ms. Patel went through the feedback in her neutral tone—awareness good, control good, hazard perception needs work, pedestrians very important, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera—but the words floated past your ears like static.

All you could hear was Taehyung’s voice in your head: If you fail, I’ll cut you off the family tree.

When you returned home, Namjoon was waiting just inside the front door, wings half-fluffed with worry. Taehyung was on the arm of the sofa, clutching a plastic butter knife he had stolen from Kira’s play kitchen, because he had been told he could not be trusted with real cutlery when emotional.

The moment he saw your face, Taehyung gasped. “You failed?!”

You opened your mouth to explain about the blind woman, the stick, the junction, fate, statistics, monster lore, the sheer cosmic unkindness of the universe—but the words tangled.

Taehyung tightened his grip on the knife. “That’s it. Out. Gone. You are STRUCK from the records!”

Namjoon grabbed him around the middle before he could launch himself physically at your shins.

“Taehyung,” Namjoon grunted, struggling a little more than he probably should with a stuffed toy, “we are not stabbing anyone with a children’s knife over a driving test.”

“It’s the principle!” Taehyung yelled, kicking his little legs in the air. “She shamed the family!”

“We are not a family,” Namjoon hissed.

“Yes, we are!” Taehyung shot back. “We’re a weird, traumatised little cluster of souls and I am the head of the household!”

You didn’t wait to see who won the argument.

While Namjoon manhandled an irate plushie away from you and Taehyung tried to wriggle free, waving the butter knife like a tiny vengeful warlord, you turned quietly, padded down the hallway, and slipped back into the bedroom.

You lowered yourself to the floor out of habit. The dust-bunny familiar shadows under the bed greeted you like an old friend.

You retreated under the bed, curling in on yourself, scarf and coat and all, claws tucked close so you didn’t scratch the frame. The world outside dimmed, muffled by blankets and wood.

A small, pathetic sniffling sound filled the space.

It took you a moment to realise it was coming from you.

The next night, when you still had not crawled out from under the bed, Namjoon came to find you.

The house was quiet. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood remembering footsteps. The door to Kira’s room opened with a tiny click.

Namjoon didn’t bother turning on the lights.

He didn’t need to. He padded in on socked feet, and the soft glow of him came with it—faint, warm, like someone had put a halo in a dimmer switch position. His wings were folded neatly against his back, feathers a little ruffled from a long day of worrying.

He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, just looking at the room. The empty bed. The quiet pile of toys. The faint outline of your tail disappearing into the shadows beneath.

Then he sighed and lowered himself slowly onto the floor, joints cracking like he was much older than he looked, and sat cross-legged beside the bed frame.

He didn’t try to yank you out. He didn’t even knock.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning his head back against the mattress. “Room service. Emotional support edition.”

You stayed very still.

You hadn’t moved much in the last twenty-four hours, except to curl tighter and occasionally wipe your face on the underside of the mattress, which probably wasn’t sanitary but did soak up tears. The shadows down there felt safer. You could pretend the world hadn’t seen you fail. You could pretend you were just a normal monster, scaring dust and occasionally making floorboards creak.

Namjoon let the silence hang for a bit. Then he huffed a little laugh, like he’d just remembered something.

“You know,” he began casually, “you’re taking this a lot better than I did.”

You blinked in the dark.

He continued, his voice light and conversational, like you were sitting at a café and not under a bed. “First time I took my driving exam, I didn’t just fail. I… what’s the human phrase…? Catastrophically detonated the experience.”

You sniffed without meaning to. The sound was small.

Namjoon smiled to himself. “Yeah. I was so nervous, my wings were shaking. I was trying to parallel park between two cones, right? Simple. Easy. Basic manoeuvre. You’ve done it better than me at this point. I, however, somehow managed to reverse directly into a lamppost.”

You frowned into the dust. You hadn’t heard this part.

“You hit a lamppost?” you croaked eventually.

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t just hit it. I uprooted it. It went down like a dramatic actor in a tragedy. There was this horrible scraping sound, and then the examiner just… put his hands over his face and cried.”

You shuffled a bit closer to the edge of the bed without realising.

Namjoon warmed to his own story. “Second attempt? I was like, okay, Namjoon, you can do this. You are a celestial being. You are made of light and reason. You are—” he paused for emphasis “—completely incapable of judging the width of a car.”

He spread his hands in the air. “I tried to turn left. There was a very innocent trash can minding its own business. I took it out. Examiner said, ‘Please pull over,’ in the tone of someone asking the universe why.”

“…oh really?” you murmured.

“Third time,” Namjoon continued, sounding almost proud of his own failure now, “I didn’t even make it out of the test centre car park. I stalled. Twice. Then my wing got stuck in the seatbelt. I panicked and tried to untangle myself while the car was technically moving. Examiner ended the test before we hit the road. He wrote, and I quote, ‘easily distressed and potentially hazardous.’”

You could hear the embarrassment and humour wrapped together in his voice. It loosened something tight in your chest.

You inched a claw forward, closer to the edge of the bed frame. “Oh wow,” you said thoughtfully. “You’re a loser.”

Namjoon’s laugh burst out of him, bright and sudden. It lit up the room a little more, his glow lifting like someone had turned up the dial.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I was a complete loser. Still am, probably. But they didn’t ban me from existing. They just made me take more lessons.”

You could feel your own mouth starting to twitch.

“And now look at you,” he added, tone softening. “You didn’t crash. You didn’t stall into a building. You didn’t uproot any lampposts. You just had… very statistically improbable bad luck.”

You hesitated. Then, very slowly, you shuffled further forward until your claws peeked out from under the bed, then your snout, then the gleam of too many yellow eyes. The shadows clung to you, but the closer you came, the more his glow softened the edges.

Namjoon turned his head, still chuckling, and leaned sideways to peek underneath, wings rustling.

He bent down, eyes squinting with his usual fond smile, dimple already showing. His face was relaxed, eyes crinkled almost shut with laughter.

“See?” he said. “You’re in good company. We’re all a disaster—”

He opened his eyes fully.

They met your face.

Your grin had crept up without your permission—wide, full of too many teeth, all your yellow eyes shining in the dark. To you, it felt like a shy, hopeful smile. To him, upside-down and three inches away, it looked like something from a celestial horror documentary.

Namjoon jolted so hard he banged the back of his head on the bed frame.

“OH—” he yelped, throwing himself backward and landing on his butt, wings flaring out with a startled fwoomp.

You blinked.

Then you snorted.

He stared at you, hand over his heart, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. “You—” he wheezed, cheeks flushing, “you can’t just do that. Warn a guy. Put a bell on or something.”

You, still half under the bed, let out a wobbly little laugh that surprised both of you. It came out wet and hiccupy, but it was a laugh all the same.

“Sorry,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re just… really jumpy for an angel.”

Namjoon’s dimple appeared again, softer this time. “Yeah, well. You’re terrifying.”

There was no weight in the word. Just amusement. Just affection.

Later, Taehyung made his entrance.

He didn’t come in nicely. He burst through the door like a tiny stuffed storm, arms thrown wide, nearly losing his balance on the doorknob.

“Alright,” he announced, voice booming in that way plushies shouldn’t technically be able to manage. “Where is the failure? I have a statement to make.”

Namjoon was still sitting on the floor, rubbing the back of his head. You had edged further out now, your upper half visible, claws folded in front of you like a student caught passing notes.

Taehyung marched straight up to the bed, then stopped, eye-level with your nose.

He crossed his little felt arms. “After careful consideration,” he began, in a tone that suggested he had been practising this speech in the mirror, “and after much emotional consultation with myself, I have decided…”

He paused dramatically.

Namjoon rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“…not to remove you from the family registry,” Taehyung finished, chin tilting up. “You may remain pencilled in. In very light pencil. With an eraser nearby.”

You stared at him.

“Wow,” you said. “What an honour.”

“Don’t mock the process,” Taehyung sniffed. “I am being merciful. Also, Namjoon said I was being ‘emotionally manipulative’ and that we don’t kick people out for failing human bureaucracy.”

Namjoon lifted a hand. “Correct.”

“And,” Taehyung added begrudgingly, “you did almost pass. For a monster designed to lurk and not indicate, you did… alright.”

This was as close to a compliment as you were likely to get from Taehyung.

“Thank you,” you said solemnly.

Taehyung eyed you for a few seconds longer. Then, very gently, he toddled forward and bumped his soft head against your claw. It was like a plushie headbutt of acceptance.

“Next time,” he muttered, “try not to summon blind women from the ether.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” you protested.

“It kind of was,” he argued.

“Statistically, it was an anomaly,” Namjoon chimed in.

All three of you looked at each other.

Something warm and ridiculous settled in the space between you—between angel and monster and overdramatic toy.

Taehyung clambered up onto Namjoon’s lap like he owned the place. Namjoon squawked but didn’t move him. You slid the rest of the way out from under the bed and leaned your back against the mattress, tail spreading out on the floor like a sleepy dragon.

“So,” Taehyung said, poking your arm, “when are you booking your next test? I need to mentally prepare my inheritance speech.”

Namjoon groaned. “Can we let her finish traumatising herself over the first one before we start the second?”

You threw your head back and laughed—really laughed this time. It was a strange sound, too loud for the little room, a bit monstrous around the edges, but it was real.

Taehyung started laughing too, even though he didn’t know why, just because you were. Namjoon tried to hold onto his dignity for a whole three seconds before his shoulders started shaking and his dimple betrayed him.

From outside, if anyone had passed Kira’s door, it would have sounded utterly unhinged: an angel, a monster, and a plushie wheezing with laughter in a dim room over absolutely nothing.

Inside, it felt like something small and important had shifted.

The night ended not with sulking or sniffling, but with all three of you sitting on the floor—Namjoon still glowing faintly, Taehyung arguing about whether he should be allowed to design official family crests, and you, no longer hiding under the bed, just… there.

It was light, and silly, and a little deranged.

Which, for the Unlike Alliance, meant everything was exactly as it should be.