Krampus had been doing this job for five hundred and thirty-seven years, four months, and sixteen days. Not that anyone was counting.

He was counting.

The morning routine never changed. Wake at 5 AM (he didn’t need an alarm anymore; his body had calcified into punctuality). Black coffee, no sugar. Review the naughty list. Update the filing system. Sharpen the chains. Oil the bells. Prepare for another year of being fundamentally misunderstood by an increasingly entitled mortal population who seemed to think “consequences” were a suggestion rather than a cosmic law.

His lair reflected this philosophy: functional, efficient, stripped to essentials.

The stone walls were bare except for a single calendar—provided by Holiday HR, naturally—marking off the days until the season officially began. The hooks where tapestries once hung stood empty. The mantle held nothing but dust. In the corner, a second chair sat untouched, its cushion still perfectly aligned from the last time he’d straightened it. Three years ago? Four?

The filing system took up the entire eastern wall: floor-to-ceiling cabinets organized by region, severity, and repeat-offense status. Color-coded labels in his own meticulous handwriting. Cross-referenced indices. A master spreadsheet updated daily. He’d even implemented a tracking system for behavioral patterns, correlating geographical data with socioeconomic factors to optimize his routes.

Last quarter’s review, he presented the system to Santa. Seventeen slides. Data visualizations. Projected efficiency gains of 23%.

Santa had grunted. “Efficiency isn’t everything.”

The elves had exchanged glances when Krampus walked past their break room. One had whispered “obsessive” under his breath, not quite quietly enough.

The ladies arrived in a whirl of silk and bells.

Nine of them. Tall, graceful, dressed in gowns that seemed to be made of music itself—fabric that shimmered and flowed and somehow chimed softly with every movement.

They took one look at Krampus’s living area—the space between his desk and the pear tree, what remained of his sitting room—and declared it a dance floor.

“Perfect!” the first lady said, clapping her hands.

“Absolutely perfect!” the second agreed.

“Wonderful spacing!” added the third.

Before Krampus could protest, they’d formed a circle and begun dancing.

Not normal dancing. This was choreographed performance art. They moved as one entity, spinning and stepping and twirling with synchronized precision. Their feet made no sound on the stone floor, but the bells in their clothing created a constant, hypnotic rhythm.