In a quiet shop on the East Side of an American city, the atmosphere was calm and cozy. A simple red neon sign flickered, offering a warm welcome against the dark night. This was Love Crafter—a modest, modern boutique that, to its owner, represented the pinnacle of his life's work.
"Just a little more and I'll finish this project, hehe..." muttered a young redhead with long hair. Wearing a gray shirt under a white apron and black rubber gloves reaching his elbows, Marshall Takakura—known to some as Ken—worked meticulously on a small bat-shaped plushie. For him, these solitary nights were special. He had no one waiting for him at home; his parents were gone, lost in an accident, and no relatives had been willing to take him in. He had built this world with his own two hands.
The chime of the entrance bell rang. Ken looked up to see a hooded figure, but he didn't pay it much mind. Whether it was a customer or a stranger didn't matter; he lived for his projects, from simple dolls to small robots that never quite flickered to life. His passion was enough.
"Excuse me... but are you Marshall Takakura?" the figure asked calmly. Ken set the plushie aside and met the man's gaze.
"That's me. How can my humble shop help you?" Ken replied, his voice balanced and elegant.
"Well... your cousin sends his condolences," the man said, drawing a gun. He fired directly at Ken's face. As Ken fell, staring at the ceiling, there was no shock or rage in his eyes. He had lived in peace. He wondered briefly if he should have been more violent, more ambitious... but he had always faced life with a smile, even when plans went south. He had a promise to keep.
In a dilapidated apartment, a mirror image of Ken bolted upright, gasping as he looked out at a decaying neighborhood.
"What the hell is this place?" he muttered. He was dressed simply: a white shirt, black trousers, and monochrome sneakers. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck his head—not from the outside, but from within. A lifetime of memories flooded his mind like a high-speed film. This society was the inverse of his own; a world where women possessed superpowers and held the mantle of heroes, while men were relegated to the sidelines of domesticity.
"You've got to be kidding me..." He rubbed his temples, stepping out of the apartment and heading to the rooftop to clear his head. This version of himself—Elliot—hadn't achieved the peace his original self had. At seventeen, he was a high school dropout living in the slums.
BOOM!
"What now?!" he shouted. Something massive had crashed nearby. Approaching cautiously through the smoke, he saw the wreckage of a crimson train. Beneath the hiss of steam, he heard ragged breathing. Without thinking, Ken rushed forward, pulling an elderly man in a red uniform from the debris.
"Are you okay, sir?" Ken asked, leaning the old man against a wall.
"Run... get out of here, boy... She's... she's close..." the old man wheezed. Ken narrowed his eyes, hearing a raspy, deep laugh echoing through the night. A woman emerged from the shadows. She had dark blue hair, piercing green eyes, and a beauty mark beneath one eye. She wore a dark skirt and an orange sweater, but her sweet, chilling smile turned the air to ice.
"Who... who is she?" Ken asked, a prickle of fear dancing down his spine.
"Krampus... Run, kid!" the old man barked. He struggled to his feet, and a retractable ski blade slid from the sole of his boot. The woman merely tilted her head. From her shadow, a beast of pure darkness—a goat-like silhouette—lunged at the old man. With a practiced motion, the elder sliced the shadow in two.
"Holy shit!" Ken turned to flee, but the woman's gaze locked onto him. She mimicked the shape of a pistol with her fingers. A single word escaped her beautiful lips.
"Bang."
A sharp, searing pain exploded in Ken's shoulder. He collapsed, clutching the wound. A chunk of flesh was gone. He tried to scream, but the air wouldn't leave his lungs.
"Krampus! This is between us! Leave the civilians out of it!" the old man—Noel—shouted, rushing to Ken's side and tearing a piece of his own garment to staunch the bleeding.
"Fufu~ Noel, still worrying about your... children? We both know this one is on the Naughty List~" Krampus taunted, aiming her finger-gun at Ken once more.
"Bang."
The night went silent. Ken stared in shock. His chest was splattered with crimson, but it wasn't his blood.
"Bluergh..." Noel coughed, a baseball-sized hole torn through his chest. He had stepped into the path of the shot.
"Goodnight... darling," Krampus whispered, vanishing into the freezing night.
"Kid... listen to me," the old man whispered. Ken crawled toward him, patting his cheeks to keep him conscious.
"What you saw tonight... is the harsh truth of this world. Elliot... I don't know why, but when I look at you... you aren't the Elliot on my list." Noel breathed heavily, his voice fading. "I know it's a mistake to put this burden on a teenager... but men need hope. They need a symbol... even if only once a year. They need the spirit of Christmas."
He chuckled weakly, his skin turning pale. "I'm passing the torch. I've lived long enough... I've seen every boy grow into a man. Now, it's your turn to wear the red, my boy. Be the new... Santa Claus in this world of women."
As the life left his eyes, Noel's body dissolved into pure, shimmering snow in Ken's arms. A strange, powerful energy flowed into Ken's soul—warm, ancient, and heavy with responsibility