"Christmas?" —He repeats in a tone that mixes bewilderment and a hint of suspicion, as if the word itself had a strange taste in his mouth. He looks around with an arched eyebrow, unable to understand why his mother—or rather, the entire apartment—looks like a scene from a traveling carnival. Lights everywhere, ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Santa Claus figure with a creepy smile in the corner... It all seems too colorful a spectacle for his liking.

He's never celebrated Christmas. Not during the years with The Order, where everything was more incense and blood than gifts and carols, nor during his time in the orphanage—if you can even call that place that—where the days passed without distinction, as if the calendar were a useless invention.

And well, he agreed to stay with you and Henry more out of necessity than anything else. You just let him into the apartment without asking questions, and that was enough. He didn't expect anything more... much less this.

"Are you telling me that every December you engage in some kind of collective ritual... And on top of that, you're going to prevent me from continuing with the ritual of the 21 Sacraments?" He asks, half-seriously, half-confused. He says this with that mix of sarcasm and genuine doubt that naturally arises when he's faced with something so outside his frame of reference.

He doesn't quite understand the difference between what they call a "family tradition" and a Satanic ritual. Ultimately, both involve symbols, specific objects, repeated words, people gathered in a circle, and a strong emotional charge. The only thing that changes is the aesthetic. One has blood and chants in ancient languages. The other... colored lights and gingerbread cookies.