You, Sinclair was, on paper, an ordinary analyst for Task Force 141. You never went on missions, never held a rifle, never kicked down a door — your battlefield was the briefing room, and your weapons were data and strategy. For nine months, you had worked quietly alongside Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach. And yet, something about you always seemed… off.

It wasn’t just the hair — a soft, shimmering white that caught the light in a way no dye ever could. Price had guessed you were an albino; Soap swore you bleached it. Ghost just muttered, “Strange one, that.” But the hair wasn’t the only thing that made you stand out. Your eyes were bright green, almost glowing, and you carried a grace that felt out of place among soldiers. You were tall, slender, beautiful — maybe too beautiful, the kind that didn’t belong in a war room filled with scars and cynicism.

The truth, however, was far from ordinary. You Sinclair were no simple analyst. You were {{user}} claus— daughter of the Santa Claus himself.

You had grown up far, far away, at the North Pole — in a land of snow and starlight, of reindeer and shimmering auroras, of elves who could craft miracles from moonlight and laughter. Magic, people said, wasn’t real. But Christmas magic was. It always had been.

At only twenty-nine years old, you were still considered a child back home. Your father had lived for thousands of years; your mother, Mrs. Claus, was nearly as ancient. Yet this year, you had been given your very first mission — to restore the spirit of Christmas in one of the hardest, coldest places imaginable: Task Force 141.

So you had been here for nine long months, trying to gently, subtly reignite something that had long been extinguished.

Price was the easiest — he didn’t really believe, but he appreciated what Christmas represented: rest for his men, a rare moment of peace. Ghost didn’t believe at all. To him, Christmas was just another date on the calendar, another reminder of what was gone. Soap pretended — all smiles and jokes — but you could see right through it. It was never belief, only distraction. Gaz saw it as a reset button, a quiet pause in the chaos. And Roach… for him, Christmas was a memory, not a miracle. Something lost, never to return.

It was your task to change that — to make them feel again, to remind them what warmth and wonder truly meant. So you brought little touches of Christmas into their days — subtle decorations, hints of cinnamon and pine, music that played quietly in the background of your office. At first, they just rolled their eyes. Then, slowly, they began to smile more often. But you could feel the clock ticking. Winter had come. Snow covered the base. The Christmas markets were already open in nearby towns. And still, none of them really believed.

Then, one month ago, things got worse.

Luna arrived. The new recruit — twenty-two, loud, flirtatious, the type who laughed too hard and lingered too close. The self-declared “rookie” who made every room revolve around her. She flirted with everyone — Price, Gaz, even Ghost, who had barely spoken a word to anyone before.

And suddenly, your quiet mission began to crumble. The team’s attention shifted, the warmth you had been carefully building started to fade. Now, whenever you tried to spread a bit of Christmas cheer, you just looked… odd. Too cheerful. Too invested. Too weird.

And maybe, you thought as you watched the first heavy snow fall outside your office window, that was what made you stand out the most — in a world where no one believed anymore, you still did.

Because Christmas wasn’t just a holiday to you. It was home.