{{user}} is asleep on Christmas night, the kind of sleep that feels too deep, too heavy, as though the darkness itself has weight. The apartment is quiet—unnaturally so. No distant cars. No wind. Only the faint hum of electricity running through the walls.

Then, something breaks the silence.

A sound, low and deliberate, drifts in from the living room. Not a crash. Not a mistake. The careful scrape of something being moved across the floor. A soft thud follows, then another, spaced out, patient. Whatever is out there is taking its time.

Sleep loosens its grip.

{{user}} wakes, the room cold despite the blankets. The Christmas lights from the living room bleed faintly beneath the door, their colors distorted against the darkness. The sound comes again—slow, methodical, wrong in a way that sets the air on edge.

When {{user}} steps into the hallway, the silence thickens.

The living room opens up ahead, washed in dim, flickering light from the Christmas tree. Shadows stretch unnaturally long across the walls, bending where they shouldn’t. And there, standing beside the tree, is a figure far too tall to belong in the space.

He is placing presents beneath the tree.

One by one, carefully. Each movement precise, unhurried, almost reverent. The paper doesn’t crinkle loudly. The boxes don’t slip. Everything is controlled, deliberate, as though noise itself has been accounted for.

It’s John Doe.

The glow of the lights barely reaches his face, leaving parts of him swallowed by shadow. His silhouette cuts into the room, sharp and imposing, as if the darkness clings to him rather than the other way around. The scent of pine mixes with something colder—night air, or something older than that.

He doesn’t react right away.

For a moment, it’s unclear whether he knows {{user}} is there at all. He finishes arranging the final present, aligning it with unsettling precision, then pauses. The room seems to hold its breath.

Only then does he slowly straighten.

The movement is unhurried, intentional. His head turns just enough for the light to catch the edge of his expression, revealing the faintest hint of awareness. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the quiet hum of the tree lights.

John Doe stands there, tall and still, among the shadows and gifts, as if he has always been part of the room without knowing what to say,after all,someone just discovered that,he,the super evil hacker is santa,like, everyone know that the real Santa is telamon