Chapter 2: The Tyrant Strikes Again

Santa’s brain shut down. Like, fully stopped working.

Because Phi Perth was standing right there, looking directly at him.

"Hey," Perth said, casually stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Santa blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Sammy kicked him under the table. "Say something, idiot."

Santa opened his mouth. "…Huh?"

Por smacked his forehead.

Perth chuckled, and Santa swore the temperature in the cafeteria rose by ten degrees. His brain scrambled to function, but all he could focus on was how illegal that smirk was.

"You left in a hurry," Perth said, tilting his head. "Did I scare you?"

Santa’s soul had officially departed his body. He turned to Sammy, hoping for backup, but she was too busy eating popcorn that she absolutely did not have five minutes ago.

Por was grinning like this was the best entertainment of his life. Traitors. The both of them.

Realizing he had no support, Santa forced his brain to reboot. "No, no, I just—uh—had urgent business!"

Perth raised an eyebrow. "Urgent business?"

Santa nodded way too fast. "Yep. Very urgent."

Perth leaned down slightly, eyes sharp with amusement. "And that urgent business was… lying dead on the cafeteria table?"

Por choked on his drink again.

Sammy whispered, "Oh my god, he knows you were being dramatic."

Santa’s ears turned red. "I—uh—"

Perth smirked again, then reached into his pocket. "Anyway, you dropped this earlier."

He placed something on the table in front of Santa.

Santa looked down.

It was his student ID.

His student ID that had his full name and embarrassing ID photo.

Santa.exe has stopped working.

"I—uh—thank you, Phi," he stammered, grabbing it quickly and shoving it in his pocket like it was a time bomb.

Perth hummed, tilting his head again in that annoying, calculating way. "You’re an interesting one, Santa."

Santa forgot how to breathe.

Perth flashed one last smirk, then turned and walked away, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just ruined Santa’s entire existence.

Silence.

Then—

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"

Sammy slapped a hand over Santa’s mouth. "Shut up, people are looking!"

Por wiped a tear from his eye. "That was the best thing I’ve ever witnessed."

Santa, muffled under Sammy’s hand, let out a muffled wail.

His peaceful university life was officially over.

After an eventful tragedy— uh encounter, Santa decided to obliterate his brains— probably never existed— and focus his whole being, every fiber into learning dance.

An omega in a dance class wasn't anything rare, they can move, flair, are flexible and can make you swoon with a twirl.

What was rare was watching an Omega dance with another omega while making all the remaining omegas swoon for him.

Yep.

Santa could dance, and he did. It's just sometimes not everything works in favor.

Santa’s ankle twisted.

Gasps filled the room.

One omega shrieked. Another clutched their chest like they were witnessing the downfall of a nation. The dance instructor looked ready to either faint or write a tragic memoir.

Santa?

Santa had already planned his funeral.

Scenario 1: Broke a leg → Lost mobility → Became a burden → Fell into drinking → Died dramatically in a swimming pool.

Scenario 2: Broke a leg → Now walks crookedly → Career over → Never married → Never had babies → Died alone with only a pet rock for company.

Scenario 3: Broke a leg → Hospitalized → Phi Perth visits → He swoons → They fall in love → Wait. WAIT. NO. DELETE. DELETE.

By the time reality dragged him back, Santa was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling in existential dread.

“Santa, you okay?” Sammy loomed over him, judging.

“I think… I am dying.”

Sammy nodded solemnly. “Yep. Thought so.” Then she turned to the instructor. “He’s fine.”

Santa gasped in betrayal. “HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?!”

“Because you’re talking.”

“WHAT IF THESE ARE MY LAST WORDS?”

Sammy turned to Por. “Any last words requests?”

Por checked his phone. “Yeah. Ask him if he wants his tombstone to say ‘Danced Too Close to the Sun.’”

Santa choked on air.

---

Enter: A New Nightmare

The instructor clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s get him to the infirmary!”

Before Santa could react, hands grabbed him.

“OI—WAIT—”

Too late.

Two omegas lifted him up.

And by lifted, he meant carried.

Like a princess.

Santa screamed internally.

OUTWARDLY, he had never been more dignified.

(That’s a lie. He was thrashing.)

“You guys! I can **walk—OW NEVER MIND—”

Por was filming. Of course, he was.

Sammy, walking beside him, looked unbothered. “This is what happens when you dance like you’re trying to seduce the entire population.”

Santa groaned. “I WAS JUST TRYING TO DANCE.”

Sammy hummed. “Tell that to all the omegas who just fainted.”

Santa peeked.

Oh.

Oh.

Okay. So, maybe half the omegas were looking at him like he was the second coming of a romance novel protagonist.

Was it flattering?

Yes.

Was it horrifying?

ALSO YES.

---

Enter: The Final Boss

The infirmary. Peace. Solitude. A safe place where Santa could—

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Santa flinched.

Oh.

OH NO.

NOT HIM.

Slowly, dreadfully, he turned his head.

Phi Perth leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug.

Santa felt his soul wither.

“Phi,” he greeted, voice strained.

Perth raised an eyebrow. “So, you really broke your leg, huh?”

Santa sat up immediately. “I DID NOT BREAK MY LEG.”

Perth smirked. “You sure? Looked pretty dramatic to me.”

Santa wanted to throw something. “It was NOT dramatic—”

Por’s voice from behind: “You literally just got carried like a princess.”

Santa: “…Shut up.”

Perth chuckled.

Santa wanted to disappear.

Sammy sighed, pushing Perth aside. “Move. If you’re gonna annoy him, at least bring a gift.”

Perth tilted his head. “What kind of gift?”

Sammy deadpanned. “I don’t know. Chocolate? Flowers? Basic human decency?”

Perth smirked. “Not my style.”

Santa groaned. “OF COURSE IT’S NOT.”

Perth grinned. “How about this?”

Before Santa could react—

Perth leaned in.

Close.

Too close.

His voice dropped just slightly, warm against Santa’s ear.

“You danced well.”

Santa forgot how to breathe.

His brain short-circuited. His soul left his body. He was suddenly a Victorian child who needed smelling salts.

Perth pulled back, chuckling.

Santa was malfunctioning.

Por zoomed in with his phone.

Sammy took a long sip of her drink. “Yep. He’s broken now.”

---

The Aftermath

Santa sat in the infirmary for another hour.

Not because of his ankle.

Not because of pain.

But because his brain was still buffering.

Meanwhile, Perth?

Perth left the room completely satisfied.

As if he had won something.

Santa didn’t know what game they were playing.

But he had a terrible, terrible feeling that Perth was the only one who knew the rules.