The glow from the monitor dims as I push my chair back, stretching until my shoulders pop. My fingers twitch, wanting to dive back into the screen, but even I have limits. Hours of hacking take their toll. The digital battlefield against Nezu left my mind buzzing, but the rush of victory still lingers in my veins.

I glance over at the corner of my room, and my eyes land on my costume. The faint green catches the low light, a shade that once symbolized something very different to me. Back then, it meant hope. Potential. The dream of standing tall as a hero who could save anyone and everyone.

Now? It's just a suit. Practical, sure. Functional, definitely. But looking at it now, it feels... tired. Like a relic of a life I've moved past. Maybe it's not the costume itself but what it represents. The Izuku Midoriya who wore that had stars in his eyes. The Izuku standing here is playing Santa to kids society forgets about—and stealing from people who probably deserve it.

My lips twitch into a half-smile. "If I'm already robbing heroes online, why not go for villains too?" I mutter to myself. They're hoarding just as much wealth as the heroes are—if not more—and they're definitely not using it for a good cause. The money I took from Nezu's blackmail fund is a start, but why stop there? If I want to pull this off the way I'm envisioning it, I need all the resources I can get.

I push myself up from my chair and walk over to the costume, brushing my fingers over the fabric. It's sturdy, built for movement, and surprisingly well-stitched for something I cobbled together on a shoestring budget. But as much as I appreciate its functionality, it doesn't scream Christmas spirit.

If I'm going to do this right—if I'm going to be Santa for kids who've never known a real Christmas—then I need to look the part. The tired green and black won't cut it anymore. It needs a makeover, something bold. Something that makes a statement.

I grab the suit off its hanger and toss it onto my bed. The fabric pools in a heap, the memories of my time at UA clinging to it like shadows. For a moment, I hesitate. This costume was Mom's handiwork. Every stitch, every seam, was made with love and belief in me. It was her way of saying, I know you'll be a hero one day. And even though I've moved away from that dream, part of me still clings to it.

But this isn't about me anymore. This new costume? It's for something bigger. Something better.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, pulling out my sketchbook and a pencil. The first lines come easy, flowing across the page as I imagine a new look. White and red—the classic Santa palette—but with a modern twist. No fluffy trim or tacky elf boots. This design needs to be sleek, elegant, and maybe just a little intimidating. After all, I'm not just sneaking into orphanages to leave presents under the tree. I'm breaking into places most people wouldn't dare touch, be they villain lairs or hero vaults.

I pause, tapping the pencil against my lip. The mask. It has to tie the whole look together, something clean and sharp but undeniably Christmas-y. A snowflake pattern, maybe? Or a metallic finish to catch the light. Something that says holiday spirit but also don't mess with me.

As the design takes shape on the page, I can't help but grin. It's not just a costume—it's a symbol. A way to remind people that even in a world as broken as ours, someone's out there trying to make it better.

But more than that, it's a reminder to myself. I may not be a hero in the traditional sense, but I'm still fighting for what's right. And maybe, just maybe, this is the path I was meant to walk all along.

I set the sketchbook aside and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my legs. My room is a mess—scraps of fabric, paint cans, and half-finished projects clutter every surface. I've always been good at improvising. Comes with the territory when you're quirkless and trying to keep up in a world that leaves you behind.

The thought makes me pause, my eyes drifting back to the costume Mom made for me. I pick it up, running my fingers over the fabric one last time. This suit carried me through some of the toughest moments of my life. It reminded me to keep going, even when everything felt impossible.

But now, it's time for something new.

I set the old costume aside and start gathering materials. Red fabric, white accents, and a sleek black base for the mask. My hands move on autopilot, cutting and stitching with a focus that blocks out everything else. The hours blur together as the new suit begins to take shape, piece by piece.

The mask is the last thing I tackle, carefully etching a subtle snowflake pattern into the design. It's understated but elegant, catching the light just enough to give it a touch of holiday magic. When I finally finish, I hold it up to the light, turning it over in my hands.

"Not bad," I mutter. It's close to perfect.

I pull the suit on, adjusting the fit as I stand in front of the mirror. The red and white pop against the black, striking a balance between festive and practical. It's not just a costume anymore—it's a statement.

And when I look at myself in the mirror, I don't just see the Izuku Midoriya who used to dream of being a hero. I see someone who's making a difference, in his own way.

"Alright," I say, smirking at my reflection. "Time to give the villains a reason to fear Santa Claus."

As I step back and admire the suit, a flicker of doubt creeps in. Can I really pull this off? The scale of what I'm trying to do is massive, and the clock is ticking. But then I think about the kids—their faces lighting up when they see the gifts, the laughter and joy that have been missing from their lives.

For them, I'll make it happen.

I grab my laptop and start making a new list. If I'm hitting villains next, I need to know exactly where to go and how to get in. And with my new suit, I'll make sure they never forget the name Santa Deku.