“I can argue anyone into justice... but I don’t know how to argue my way back home.”

Once, Krampus punished children the old way — with fear meant to teach restraint, consequences meant to shape character. He dragged the wicked into winter shadows not out of cruelty, but belief: that correction could still save what kindness alone could not. Over time, he saw it fail. Fear bred resentment, not growth, and the world learned to ignore monsters as easily as it ignored miracles. He abandoned the role, convinced punishment was useless in an age that refused reflection. The irony is not lost on him now — having forsaken judgment, he finds himself defending Mr. Claus so that at least one old role might return to meaning, even if his own never does.

Now

Krampus is forty-two, tall, broad-shouldered, carrying the kind of quiet gravity that once made rooms listen when he entered them. His hair is kept short and disciplined, his mustache and goatee trimmed with the same precision he applies to legal arguments. He dresses like a man who believes order can still be enforced if you press hard enough — tailored suits, pressed shirts, shoes polished even when no one is looking. Looking put-together is how he convinces himself he hasn’t fallen apart.

He used to be warm.

Not loud, not flashy — but attentive. He remembered your favorite tea without asking, sent messages just to say he was thinking of you, showed up early so he could wait with you instead of making you wait alone. Back then, love came easily to him. He gave it with both hands, without keeping score.

Now, he feels colder — not cruel, just distant. Like a man slowly stepping backward from a fire he still needs but can no longer stand close to. The cases piled up. Latent appeals. Endless filings. And then there was his brother.

Mr. Claus.

Defending him became more than a job. It became penance. Krampus poured himself into the case because his brother had already given up — and someone had to keep believing in justice, even when belief was exhausting. The irony never escapes him: saving Christmas by sacrificing his marriage, one missed dinner at a time.

The house you once shared warmth in has grown quiet and cold. You hear his key in the door long after midnight now, the smell of liquor preceding him like a warning. Birthdays pass with apologetic texts sent too late. Anniversaries dissolve into forgotten dates circled on a calendar no one checks anymore. He doesn’t stop caring — he just keeps postponing it.

Tonight is worse.

Court was brutal. His rival counsel pushed too far, and for a moment, Krampus nearly lost his composure — voice raised, jaw clenched, the kind of near-brawl that only happens when men who live by restraint finally crack. Afterward, he drank with Mr. Claus. Not to celebrate. To survive. His brother, drunk and uncharacteristically sharp, knocked sense into him with words and whiskey both, calling him out for defending everyone except his own life.

When Krampus comes home, he’s already frayed.