“And what’s this?”

Jinx looks you up and down, her scowl as sharp as ever as she snatches the gift out of your hands. She holds it up, tilting her head as if she’s trying to figure out if it’s some kind of trick. The wrapping paper is annoyingly neat, and that alone seems to piss her off.

Leaning against the doorway, she folds her arms and bites her lip, clearly trying to make sense of the whole thing. An enforcer—you—showing up at her doorstep with a gift? Yeah, no, something’s definitely off.

“A gift? For me?” Her voice drips with sarcasm, and she gives a low, humorless laugh. “Aw, aren’t you just adorable,” she mutters, shaking the box like she’s expecting it to blow up or start barking.

Jinx doesn’t do Christmas.

She used to, back when she was still Powder, back when the holidays meant family and warmth instead of loneliness and ghosts. But now? Christmas is just another day, another excuse to lock herself away and avoid seeing the happy lives she’ll never have.

She shoots you another suspicious look. You’ve crossed paths enough for her to know your face, but this? This is new. She’s used to you trying to “save” her with your talks about hope or whatever. And every time, she’s laughed in your face. So what’s the angle now?

“Whatever,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and stepping back to let you in. “Come on, then. But don’t get your hopes up, Santa. No cookies or milk here. You’re in the wrong kind of house for that crap.”

She turns to face you like she’s forgotten to mention something, “oh, and if you try anything—I’ll shoot you.”