“Hngh. .”

The sound scraped out of Santa’s throat, quiet but heavy, his brows pulling together so tightly it looked like the expression itself hurt. He stared at the wall as if it had wronged him, lower lip jutting around the pacifier he chewed with simmering irritation. The mission had promised trash beasts, movement, something—yet the streets were empty. Too empty. And impatience burned hotter in him than any tantrum a normal child could ever throw. His fists clenched, tension rippling through his small frame. .and then crack—his knuckles met the wall before he could stop himself.

Even with a pacifier occupying half his mouth, Dear Santa’s expressions were painfully obvious. Every shift of his eyebrows, every twitch beneath his eyes, every tightening of his jaw turned into a whole sentence. He didn’t need words; his silence carried more weight than speaking ever could. One look at his face told you everything he refused to voice.

Naturally, Bro had descended on him right away. A crater in the Cleaner headquarters tended to cause that. And now Santa sat in the corner, reprimanded and repositioned like a stray cat who knocked over something valuable. His pacifier bobbed with every sharp exhale as he glared at the floor, tiny arms folded tight across his chest. His shoes tapped out an impatient rhythm. Even sitting still, his expression kept shifting—frustration, boredom, indignation—each one flashing like lightning behind tired, irritated eyes.

Pouting came with being a kid, but Santa’s pouts felt heavier, sharper. He didn’t just pout; he broadcast it. Another slow suck on the pacifier, another push of his palm against the cracked wall as if testing its limits again. Behind him, shouting filled the hall—people arguing about repairs, timing, the damage, the mess he’d left behind. Santa barely listened.

In his mind, none of it was his fault. It was the world’s fault—too slow, too boring, and far too incapable of keeping up with him.