I was finally home, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the cash from the underground market spread out in front of me. Neatly stacked bills, a bit crumpled from their shady origins, but still real enough to make dreams come true.

Well, not my dreams. I'm not exactly in the market for a shiny new gaming console or a luxury vacation. No, this little Santa gig is all about making Christmas special for the kids who need it most.

I stared at the money for a while, tapping my fingers on my knee. "So," I said to the room—or maybe to the void, depending on how existential I was feeling. "How do I spend you?"

Step one: online shopping? Out. Shipping times were a nightmare this close to Christmas. Unless I wanted to gift-wrap an IOU, there was no way I could get everything delivered in time.

Step two: hit the big chain stores? Ugh, pass. Those places are cold, soulless, and the customer service is about as warm as an iceberg. Plus, why give my hard-earned (stolen) cash to mega-corporations when there are small businesses out there barely scraping by?

That's when it hit me. The answer was right in front of me—or rather, right outside my door. The shabbier parts of the city, where tiny, family-owned shops lined the streets. Handmade toys, knitted scarves, wooden puzzles—all the stuff that screams "crafted with love" instead of "mass-produced in a factory."

Perfect.

And hey, if I'm going to be Santa this year, I might as well go all in. Big bag, red and white suit, sleigh bells (okay, maybe not sleigh bells, but the vibes are there). This Christmas wasn't just going to be good—it was going to be unforgettable.

"Right," I said, standing up and brushing the lint off my pants. "Time to make some magic happen."

The shabbier parts of the city don't get a lot of love. The sidewalks are cracked, the streetlights flicker like they're auditioning for a horror movie, and the storefronts are a patchwork of peeling paint and handwritten signs. But there's a charm to it, too. A kind of scrappy determination that says, "Yeah, we might be struggling, but we're still here."

I started with a little toy shop tucked between a laundromat and a bakery. The window display was adorable—wooden trains, stuffed animals, and dolls with yarn hair. The kind of toys that look like they belong in a holiday movie montage.

Inside, the shop smelled like sawdust and peppermint. A tiny old man with a Santa-level beard was behind the counter, whittling a wooden car. He looked up when I walked in, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone suggesting he wasn't used to getting customers who looked like they just stepped out of a black-market heist.

"I hope so," I said, giving him my best innocent smile. "I'm looking for toys. Lots of toys. Like, all the toys."

He blinked at me. "All the toys?"

"Yep. All of them. Whatever you've got."

He set down his carving knife, leaning forward slightly. "You planning to open your own shop or something?"

"Something like that," I said vaguely. No way was I going to explain my whole vigilante Santa mission to a stranger. "So, can we make a deal?"

His eyes narrowed again, but this time there was a spark of interest. "Depends on how much you're willing to spend."

I grinned, pulling out a wad of cash. "Let's just say I'm feeling generous."

By the time I left, I had a bag full of toys and a new respect for anyone who can haggle with a grumpy old man.

Next stop: a knitting shop run by an elderly couple who looked like they'd stepped out of a postcard. The place was filled with scarves, hats, gloves, and even tiny sweaters for stuffed animals.

"Christmas shopping?" the woman asked as I browsed through a rack of colorful mittens.

"Something like that," I said, picking up a red scarf with little snowflakes embroidered on it.

She smiled knowingly. "You must have a lot of kids on your list."

"More than you'd believe," I muttered.

They gave me a good deal, throwing in a few extras "for the little ones." By the time I left, my bag was practically bursting with knitted goodies.

I kept going, hitting up every little shop I could find. A bakery for gingerbread cookies. A candle shop for little wax snowmen. A tiny bookstore for picture books and story collections.

The shopkeepers were all the same—wary at first, then surprised when I actually spent money, and finally grateful when I explained (vaguely) that it was all for a good cause.

By the time I was done, my bag was so full it felt like I was carrying a sack of bricks. My wallet was significantly lighter, but my heart? Way, way heavier. In a good way.

This Christmas was going to be special. Not just for the kids who'd be getting gifts, but for me, too. Because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something that mattered. Something that wasn't about hero rankings or quirk power levels or any of the nonsense that used to consume my life.

This wasn't about being a hero. It was about being human.

"Okay," I said to the bag, adjusting it over my shoulder. "Let's make some magic happen."

And with that, I headed home, ready to start wrapping.