“Someone stole the Index,” Callum said, slapping the thorn on the table. “Your signature.”

Krampus was not the horned brute of legend. He was gaunt, clad in a worn leather coat, with one broken horn and eyes that held the sadness of a thousand unchosen children.

“No,” Callum says, looking at Krampus, who’s awkwardly sipping hot cocoa in a corner, wearing a new, single-antlered helmet. “I realized the job isn’t protecting you. It’s protecting the idea that anyone can flip their list.”

Callum fights with his signature tactical gifts (taser-candy canes, grappling-hook ribbons). Krampus fights with old-magic chains and raw, mournful fury. But Gretel is winning—she’s not evil; she’s unmade , and she wants everyone to feel that void.

Nick, ever the optimist, shook his head. “He’s been exiled to the Nether-Veil for 500 years. He wouldn’t dare—”