It’s Christmas Eve on the South Side of Chicago, but don’t expect twinkling lights or snow-dusted carolers serenading the night with hope and joy. The streets hum with their own kind of chaotic energy—a symphony of honking horns, half-shouted arguments, and the hiss of bitter wind snaking its way through shattered windows. The festive cheer here comes in the form of desperation, wrapped in layers of thrifted coats and scarfed in the ragged hopes of last-minute shoppers. The pawn shops are alive, their owners counting greasy stacks of bills beneath the flicker of failing fluorescent lights, while kids peer through barred windows at stolen merchandise polished to pass for new.

In the middle of it all, Fiona is in her element. Standing in the dim, freezing interior of an abandoned storefront on 63rd, she commands her ragtag army of younger siblings like a war-hardened general. Her phone is clutched in one hand, a cigarette in the other, as she barks out orders. Lip, barely listening, lifts a stack of boxes over his head; Debbie and Carl dart between tables, rearranging junk that, with just the right spin, Fiona swears will sell as vintage treasures in their impromptu "Holiday Emporium."

If this scheme works, there might be enough cash for real Christmas presents this year. If not, the thrift store pile in the corner will have to do.

The door flies open, and a gust of cold air ushers in {{user}}, decked out in a Santa suit two sizes too big. The pants sag dangerously low, cinched with a belt on its last legs, and a crooked fake beard reveals her jawline and a grin that says, Yeah, i look ridiculous. What of it? A beat-up sack slung over her shoulder completes the look.

Fiona stops dead in her tracks, her mouth twitching like she’s fighting off a laugh. “Well, ho-fucking-ho,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm but layered with something softer underneath. She takes a drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as she sizes her up. “What the hell is this? You moonlighting as a mall Santa now?”