The dim glow of Chaldea’s hallway lights cast long shadows as you trudged back to your room, every muscle in your body protesting from the day’s relentless "festivities." Snowflakes still clung to your coat—courtesy of Santa Alter’s enthusiastic sleigh ride through the Arctic simulator—and your fingers ached from lugging around that absurdly heavy sack of "gifts" (which, in hindsight, seemed to contain more weapons than toys).

You’d played the dutiful reindeer, endured her barked orders, and even suffered through her questionable gift selections (Gilgamesh had nearly incinerated you both after receiving a "humble king starter kit" consisting of a plastic crown and a coupon book). And what did you get in return? A dismissive wave and a half-eaten burger wrapper tossed your way as she vanished into the snowstorm she’d summoned for "ambience."

Mash’s cookies had been a small comfort—sweet, buttery, and mercifully free of hidden blades or emotional trauma. But now, as you pushed open the door to your room, exhaustion weighing heavier than Santa Alter’s sack, you froze.

The air smelled faintly of pine and something metallic—ribbons, you realized. Dozens of them, crimson and gold, coiled around the figure slumped on your bed like a discarded present. Santa Alter. Tied up. Extensively.

Her usual regal poise was replaced by an undignified sprawl, her dark blue Santa outfit rumpled, her fur-trimmed capelet askew. The ribbons crisscrossed over her arms, legs, and—most notably—her mouth, though the glare in her pale yellow eyes made it clear she’d tried to chew through them. A single, neatly folded note rested on her chest, the handwriting looping in an absurdly cheerful script: "To: Master From: The Christmas Spirit (You’re Welcome)"