The sleigh cut across the night sky like a comet trailing snowdust. Jack Hou leaned forward, red-green hanfu fluttering wildly in the wind, Zephyr beside him humming with speed. His eyes gleamed golden under the moonlight.
He'd already crossed Japan and now dipped low over the Korean peninsula, delivering gift after gift, peach trees blooming where names on his Personal Naughty List had earned it. He didn't give a damn if it was South or North Korea—tyranny was tyranny, and bad karma didn't discriminate between political systems.
Each corrupt official listed in Coulson's red folder got their own personalized hellbloom peach tree. The Philippines president, the Indonesian leader, and the South and North Korean executive—all of them now had scented regrets growing in their living rooms.
Above the Himalayan shadowlines, Jack's sleigh slowed, then coasted toward the faint shimmer of protective wards. Jack dropped his concealment spell as he hopped down from the sleigh. A knock.
The doors of the Nepal Sanctum creaked open. Master Kaecilius stood in the archway, his gaze like a locked door. "What are you doing here?"
Jack gave him a toothy, mischievous grin. "Bringing a gift to a friend. Ever heard of Santa Claus? That's me today." He jingled his sack like a madman playing jingles.
Before Kaecilius could say more, a familiar voice echoed from the shadows behind him. "Enough, Master Kaecilius. He is my guest." The Ancient One—Yao—emerged, calm as winter, timeless as a glacier. Kaecilius hesitated, then offered a terse bow before stepping aside.
Jack didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward like a child seeing their brother after years apart and flung his arms around Yao in a big, sweeping hug. "Yaoooooo!" Jack yelled, spinning them slightly. "Man, I've missed you! You won't believe what kind of side quest I've picked up on my journey."
Yao, ever unbothered, gently patted Jack's back. "Come," he said, motioning toward the inner sanctum. "This isn't even the end of your full journey. Let's not pretend you've found your path just yet."
They moved into the courtyard, where a bodhi tree rustled in the moonlight. Yao conjured a tea set beneath it with a simple flick of his wrist. Jack dropped cross-legged into the cushion like a relaxed fox. He sniffed the tea. "Oooh, lemongrass? Fancy."
"I'd offer oolong," Yao said, "but I figured your madness needed a bit more grounding."
Jack laughed, that signature kekekeke echoing through the yard. "Of course I'm not done," he said, sipping his tea, "but I got a gig. I'm Santa now. Legit. Not even a Linkedin bullshit or a single HR screening. I just took the sleigh and the list, and bam, Christmas god in the making."
Yao poured his own cup and raised a brow. "You do realize the consequences, right?"
Jack waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, pissing off gods and their pantheons? Pffttt. Yao, buddy, I grew up dodging bullet rain, collecting debt with a knife under my ribs, and running an empire with one phone battery bar and three cigarettes. These gods? They've been sitting on their ass for centuries. They forgot what it means to move. They built temples, I built trauma. Let's see who's holier."
Yao actually paused—impressed. "You have a unique way with words," he said at last.
Jack grinned again. "Thanks. I'll put that on a bumper sticker."
There was a moment of silence, the kind only found in sanctums, temples, or the last breath before a fall.
Then Yao sighed and smiled. "I suppose I can help you again in the future, if you're truly committed."
"Seriously?" Jack lit up. "You mean it?"
"Go," Yao said, lifting his cup, "Isn't this your first real job? As Santa, no less. Make sure you don't slack off."
Jack stood, gave an exaggerated salute. "Yes, sir. First paycheck pending." He turned to leave, but before walking out of the courtyard, he stopped and grinned over his shoulder. "Talking with you always brings me peace, Yao."
Yao lifted his tea in reply. "The world's watching you."
Jack waved a hand. "I only care for the eyes I care about. And you're in the top five. Kekekekeke!" With that, he ran off, cloak flapping behind him, ready to dive back into the skies.
Jack Hou blazed through the skies of South Asia, a blur of red and green robes riding a sleigh wreathed in stardust and mischief. Beneath him, the cities of Mumbai, Kolkata, Dhaka, Kathmandu, and the snowy outlines of Western China passed in a glittering flash.
Zephyr flies beside the sleigh with joy, gliding smoothly along the leyline winds like a cloud dancing on a string. Jack was lounging sideways on the sleigh, letting the reindeers do the heavy lifting. At this point, he'd found a rhythm: Slip in. Drop the gift. Maybe plant a surprise peach tree if your name's in his personal list. Exit. "Effortless," he mumbled, mouth full of stolen milk cookies. "Santa who?"
…
Meanwhile – United Kingdom. Date: December 24th. Time: 22:15 PM.
While Jack soared over the Himalayas, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was not having a restful Christmas Eve. In a high-security bunker beneath Whitehall, a shadowy meeting unfolded over encrypted comms. The PM's face was pale, drawn tight with stress as he barked into the center table. "Do we have any clarification from the Australians or the Indonesians?"
On the holo-feed, the French President adjusted his tie and replied, "Non. They won't talk. Not to us. But the pattern's clear. Every tree bloomed around 4:30 AM, local time. And every target? Someone who voted 'Yes' to launch that missile."
There was a tense silence. Then the German Chancellor leaned forward, his tone smug but not unkind. "All I can say is... good luck. I warned you all during the vote. Attacking an unidentified, unprovoked island? It was reckless."
The UK Prime Minister slammed his palm down on the console. DISCONNECTED: Germany. One by one, with a few furious taps, he severed connection to each leader who had abstained or voted No—cowards in his eyes. Only the 'Yes Men' remained.
The PM's gaze turned cold. "From this moment on, double all protective personnel around every one of your residences. Private and official. I don't care if it's a doghouse or a bloody broom closet—guard it." A beat. The call ended.
He stormed across the room, barking at the nearest aide. "Get my chief of security. Wake the Home Secretary. If that lunatic Jack Hou thinks he's dropping anything in my home—tree, peach, pamphlet or so much as a petal—I'll have the bloody RAF shoot him down."
The aide stammered. "Sir, it's nearly midnight... Christmas—"
"I know what day it is!"
…
Jack leaned forward, sipping milk from a stolen mug with "WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDMA" carved in the side. His golden eyes flickered as the sleigh shot through the wind tunnels of the Roof of the World, dipping toward Eastern China. "Wonder if any of those political nutters are panicking yet," he murmured, then smirked.
Zephyr gave a low, questioning flutter. Jack grinned. "Don't worry. I still have plenty of blossoms left. And tonight… we make history."
Jack Hou soared over the snow-stained rooftops of Eastern Europe, brushing off the cold with a flick of his crimson-and-green hanfu. The sleeves rippled like silken streamers in the wind as his sleigh skidded to a halt above Moscow. "Fucking vodka-chugging idiots..." Jack muttered, perched sideways on the sleigh like he was lounging on a beach chair. "How are you not asleep at four in the bloody morning?"
One of the Kremlin guards below lit a cigarette while glancing up suspiciously.
Jack, invisible beneath his Bodily Concealment Spell, sighed. "Okay, stealth mode: on."
He moved through the shadow of satellite towers and security cams like a rumor in the wind. He'd already dropped the glowing peach-seed crystal in the Russian president's garden—an early, pungent gift for the man who signed a paper to blow up an innocent island.
Zephyr gave a low whine. Jack whispered, "Yeah, I know. That one reeked. But let's keep moving. Our list isn't done." The sleigh veered westward.
He tore through the time zones of the Middle East like a festive storm. Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, Qatar, Egypt—tick, tick, tick. For every palace, every residence, every glass-and-gold fortress with military-grade defenses, Jack had an answer.
The Prince of Saudi Arabia had three decoy suites and ten layers of surveillance, but Jack just slipped in, past motion sensors and left behind a crystal bloom right on the man's prayer mat. He didn't linger. But in Dubai? He lingered.
The sleigh slowed to a hovering stop beside the Burj Khalifa, tallest building in the world, and Jack leaned over the edge like a curious child. "Hey, Zeph," he whispered, "wanna take a photo on top?" Zephyr fluttered excitedly, clearly on board.
The two landed atop the building's spire, the icy wind combing through Jack's now-loosened hair. He struck a heroic pose with his staff—Ruyi Jingu Bang now curled like a candy cane in one hand. The moment was utterly ridiculous—and perfect.
…
As the sleigh spiraled across the Sahara, the continent of Africa rolled beneath Jack like a tapestry of dreams. Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa, Ethiopia, Morocco, Côte d'Ivoire, Senegal, Ghana, Algeria—tick. tick. Tick. Then… he slowed.
Hovering somewhere above the dense jungles and radiant mountains, Zephyr stalled. Below them, hidden in the trees, Wakanda pulsed with ancient power.
Jack frowned. "Hmm..." He pulled out his personal list, chewing the end of his quill. "Technically, they're a country. But they're hidden. They chose seclusion. And barging in uninvited—especially me—could unravel a thousand years of sovereignty…"
Zephyr nudged him gently, as if asking, So… you gonna skip?
Jack smiled slowly. "Of course… not." He tapped the reins, and the sleigh tilted toward the secluded nation. "The more chaos," Jack whispered gleefully, "the more memorable the Christmas."
Kekekekekekeke. And down into the vibranium-veined shadows they dove—toward the heart of a hidden kingdom where even gods tread lightly.
…
The sky over Wakanda was a velvet black veil kissed by stars, untouched by light pollution or the tremors of the outside world. In that sacred hush before dawn, T'Challa stood alone on the wide balcony of his royal quarters. The obsidian railing beneath his hands was cool to the touch. The wind was gentle. The city of Birnin Zana shimmered below him, its golden veins pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
He is 26 now. One year into the mantle of Black Panther. They usually passed the title at thirty. But T'Challa had trained harder, learned faster, and sacrificed more than most ever did. His father, the great T'Chaka, had relented—but only after years of trial, years of proving.
And even still, his father denied him the one thing he truly desired. The world beyond. T'Challa narrowed his eyes, staring into the distance where the mountains met the stars. "The world is greedy," his father had told him. "They take and take. They see resources, not people. They see your strength, and they plan how to strip it away."
T'Challa didn't disagree. But he couldn't stop the itch in his chest. The curiosity. The hunger to see for himself. A sigh escaped him. "I guess I can go train early today…"
He turned away from the balcony. But just before stepping inside, he paused. A twitch of instinct. As if something—no, someone—was right in front of him. He peered out again. Nothing. Just stars.
T'Challa shrugged. "I must be tired," he murmured. Then he stepped into the shadows of his room.
Hovering just beyond the line of sight, no more than a dozen feet away, floated a sleigh coasting atop a napping Zephyr. And atop the sleigh, invisible and gleeful, crouched Jack Hou.
He watched the Black Panther vanish into his quarters, a mischievous grin stretching wide across his face. "Kekekekeke," he giggled. "So that's the Black Panther, huh? Well-built. Stoic. Moody. Bast really lucked out with this one…"
He balanced casually on the edge of the sleigh, his Ruyi Jingu Bang twirling lazily in his fingers like a conductor's baton. Then he squinted toward the vibranium temple at the center of the capital. "Well," he whispered, "I technically already gave my gift to the children. I only have one more left. Just a tiny little prank. I mean, it's not like Bast'll smite me or anything, right?"
Zephyr groaned lowly from the sleigh, shifting in midair like a nervous intern. Jack patted the cloud's side, eyes glinting. "Oh don't be a buzzkill, Zeph. It's just a harmless god-on-avatar crime. Let's call it a seasonal offering. One trickster to a feline goddess."
Kekekekekeke. His fingers danced into the golden sack nestled beside him, pulling from its shimmering depths a raw gift crystal—still glowing faintly, like unspoken laughter trapped in glass. He held it up. "Alright, kitty boy," Jack muttered. "Time to make you meow."
He channeled his qi, golden sparks dancing between his fingertips, and the crystal shimmered—morphed—until it took the shape of… A pair of socks.
But not just any socks. Cat socks. Fuzzy. Soft. And unmistakably designed with Bast's feline flair—one with a smug black panther face, the other a growling tiger yawn. Jack pulled a slip of parchment from his sleeve, dipped a brush in ethereal ink, and scribbled a letter.
~~~
Dear Kitty King,
I saw your claws, and I gotta say—solid form, but you're wound tighter than a vibranium coil. Let me give you a spoiler: the world is chaotic. Learn to laugh, or you'll spend your whole reign growling. Consider this your first fan mail.
– Your international monkey,
Jack 'Definitely-Not-on-the-Naughty-List' Hou
P.S. The socks are a Christmas gift. Wear them for me, will ya?
~~~
Jack gently placed the socks and the letter at the foot of the Black Panther's bed, casting a concealment charm so they'd only appear at dawn. With a final smug smirk, he turned back to the sleigh. "Next stop," he said with a grin. "The Western Hemisphere."
The sleigh zipped off into the sky, leaving only a faint shimmer of glitter in the air—and the distant echo of his laugh. "Kekekekekekeke…"
…
T'Challa wiped sweat from his brow, finishing the final movement of his morning kata. His muscles ached—but his mind had settled. Training always helped ease the burdens of thinking too much. He stepped back inside his room.
As he crossed the floor, his foot sank into something soft. "Meow." T'Challa froze. "…What." He looked down. He was… wearing socks. Not just any socks. Cat socks.
"Meow." "Meow."
Each step triggered another sound. T'Challa's brow furrowed in horror. There, next to the foot of his bed, was a parchment. He picked it up slowly, reading the absurd letter scrawled in gold ink. By the time he reached "Jack 'Definitely-Not-on-the-Naughty-List' Hou," his expression was caught somewhere between furious indignation and confused disbelief.
He crumpled the letter, turned toward the door, and shouted—"SHURI!!"
From down the hall. "I didn't do it! …Wait, what didn't I do!?"
**A/N**
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**A/N**