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The afternoon sun of Los Santos filtered through the slats of the blinds, painting warm, golden stripes across the bedroom carpet. Dust motes danced in those beams of light, tiny particles of a life that had finally found a quiet, steady rhythm for Franklin Clinton—or, as he now preferred and loved to be called, Franklin De Santa. At nine years old, after a whirlwind of loss and displacement, the word "home" had stopped being an abstract concept from movies and had become the texture of clean sheets, the smell of freshly cut grass from the garden, and the sound of laughter filling the house.
Franklin was a boy with skin as dark as a moonless Los Santos night, and with a head of kinky, jet-black hair that his dad Trevor insisted on taming every morning with a patience that bordered on heroic. That rebellious mane was a stubborn legacy from a mother he barely remembered with the clarity of dreams. Her death, when he was just seven, had been as if someone had suddenly switched off the sun. The world turned gray, cold, and enormously silent. There were no relatives fighting for his custody with crocodile tears; there was only his Aunt Denise, a woman whose presence was as welcome as a toothache. The aversion was mutual, a tacit, heavy feeling that hung in the air whenever they saw each other. Franklin felt a bitter sensation, a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, in her company. It didn't take long, just after the dust of his mother's passing had settled, for Denise to drop him off, without ceremony, at the first foster home she could find, like someone returning a defective package.
But that bitter chapter, that initial cold, didn't matter anymore. He had been rescued, adopted, and above all, chosen by what he considered the best parents a kid like him could have. They lived in a neat, attached house in a peaceful, middle-class suburb of Los Santos, far from the echo of sirens and the cracked concrete of the neighborhoods that saw his first steps. The house wasn't a pretentious mansion, but a refuge of exposed brick and Spanish tile roof. Its greatest luxury was the backyard: a long rectangle of real grass, a miracle of lush green that Franklin would stroke with the soles of his bare feet. In the center, a brick barbecue stood as a witness to weekly feasts where charcoal smoke mingled with the scent of meat and bursts of laughter. It was a good, honest life. It wasn't the strident opulence of the hills, but neither was it the resigned poverty of his childhood; it was the happy medium, the point of balance where happiness could take root.
His new parents were, in themselves, quite a spectacle. Michael and Trevor, a gay couple balancing on the edge of their late thirties and early forties, had woven a safety net around him so solid that Franklin could no longer, nor wanted to, imagine his life without them. They had offered him an existence the boy had only believed possible in afternoon TV shows: a bed that was always warm and his own, homemade food that tasted of care—not haste—and an amount of affection so overwhelming that sometimes his small heart, still healing from old wounds, felt it might overflow.
Trevor, the Canadian, was a whirlwind of contained energy and uninhibited affection. He was in charge of domestic logistics: the one who drove him to school in a car with the radio always too loud, who supervised his homework with comic grimaces, and who made up absurd songs to make cleaning his room more bearable. He was the official stay-at-home dad, though Franklin, with the street-smarts he'd acquired, knew his father had "other business." A job he only spoke about with evasiveness and a knowing wink, always capped with the same phrase: "That's serious grown-up stuff, kiddo." A reason that was more than enough for Franklin, a mystery he accepted as part of Trevor's charm. Sometimes, very late, Franklin would hear the powerful rumble of an engine in the garage and knew his dad was back from "that," from that mysterious job that gave his eyes that dangerous, exciting glint.
Michael was the perfect counterpoint, the calm after the Trevor-storm. More serious, with measured manners and a voice that could soothe an enraged lion, he possessed a magnetic quality that made his mere presence in a room interesting. He worked at a Vinewood film studio as a producer, sometimes a director, and his world was filled with scripts, storyboards, and meetings with "important" people. But no matter how hectic his day was, nor the last-minute crisis on set, Michael always crossed the threshold of the house just as the sun began to disappear. His ritual was sacred: going up the stairs, peeking into Franklin's room, and, with the book of the day in hand, immersing them in worlds of pirates, dragons, or space adventures. Michael's voice, deep and narrative, was the thread that wove Franklin's dreams each night, a perfect antidote against any nightmare from the past.
Life with his two dads was, in a word, fulfilling. They paid attention to him not out of obligation, but from genuine interest. They had time to listen to his school stories, to cheer him on during a soccer game in the backyard, to teach him to ride a bike without training wheels, celebrating the first full lap without a fall as if he'd won the Grand Prix. And, in an act of understanding that Franklin valued more than his words could express, they didn't try to sever the ties with his former life. They allowed—even encouraged—him to go back to his old neighborhood to visit his best friend, Lamar. These reunions were a necessary release valve, a way to connect the two halves of his life. He could transition from the orderly calm of the suburbs to the bustling chaos of the streets that had seen him born, knowing that when night fell, he'd have a warm, safe place to return to.
Franklin Clinton, the boy with dark skin and rebellious hair, had found his harbor. And in the heart of that home, between Trevor's loving chaos and Michael's constant serenity, his identity as Franklin De Santa grew stronger and surer each day, rooted in the fertile soil of an unconditional love that, at last, belonged to him.
But not everything in Franklin's life could be happy; the boy knew it in some deep corner of his being, even amidst the perfect warmth of his new home. There was a lesson the streets of his old life had branded into him: whenever you find yourself in a safe zone, life will come along and, like a treacherous kick to the groin, remind you that happiness is not a permanent state, but a fragile balance. That reminder arrived, ironically, wrapped in gift paper and twinkling lights, smelling of pine and gingerbread: the first Christmas with the De Santas.
The house had transformed. The air, which usually smelled of cleanliness and the damp earth from the garden, was now imbued with the sweet scent of cinnamon and the hot chocolate Trevor prepared meticulously, adding a Canadian "special touch"—a generous dose of whiskey—just for the adults. A monumental tree, which Franklin thought touched the ceiling with its sparkling star, dominated the living room. It was laden with colorful ornaments, silver garlands, and the mesmerizing Christmas lights. Franklin could spend hours lying on the carpet, staring transfixed as those small red, green, blue, and yellow points of light reflected in his brown eyes, creating a miniature universe full of magic and promises.
Trevor, in a state of festive jubilation bordering on catastrophic, had unearthed from some chest his collection of "ugly Christmas sweaters." They were thick woolen garments, adorned with reindeer with blinking noses that flashed erratically, trees embroidered with glitter that shed onto the furniture, and even one that mimicked a snowman with a 3D hat. Social pressure—or rather, marital pressure—had achieved the impossible: making Michael, the serious Vinewood producer, don a spinach-green one, decorated with an elf with a particularly mocking expression. Franklin had witnessed the negotiation. Michael, frowning, held the sweater as if it were a venomous animal. "There is no human power that will make me wear this, Trevor," he'd said in his deep voice. Trevor then approached, and with a mischievous smile and a whisper so low Franklin could barely catch it, murmured: "Do it for me, honey. I'll *make it up to you* in the bedroom..." Michael had sighed, defeated, but a barely perceptible smile played on his lips. Franklin, with the pragmatic logic of a nine-year-old, found it sensible. Trevor kept his wallet on the nightstand; what other form of "making it up" could there be? It seemed a fair deal.
It was, in essence, an almost perfect Christmas. Dinner was a feast, with a turkey Trevor swore he'd prepared following his grandmother's secret recipe, and the table thrummed with laughter and anecdotes. Franklin went to bed that night with a full stomach and an even fuller heart, the excitement of the next morning forming a knot of anticipation in his chest.
The dawn of December 25th arrived with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds, illuminating the piles of gifts under the tree. Franklin, his heart pounding like a drum, was the first to rush out of his room. The ritual was chaotic and joyful, with wrapping paper flying through the air and exclamations of surprise. He received new clothes, several adventure books that Michael read to him eagerly before bed, and a complex construction set. They were good gifts, gifts chosen with affection. But inside him, a small, cold disappointment began to crystallize. The large, rectangular package he'd imagined wasn't there. The car wasn't there.
He had put all his faith in that particular toy: a remote-control car, the "Red Inferno" model he'd seen in the window of the mall toy store. It wasn't just any toy; it was a masterpiece of miniature engineering. A bright red like the bodywork of the sports cars he saw in Vinewood, with rubber tires featuring realistic treads and an aerodynamic shape that promised "inhuman" speeds, as the box proclaimed. The remote control, black and ergonomic, boasted an incredible range and cutting-edge technology. From the moment he saw it, Franklin daydreamed about making it zoom across the yard, tracing tight curves on the driveway, imagining himself chasing thieves or winning epic races.
He had mentioned it to Trevor and Michael with his eyes shining with hope. Both adults had shown measured interest, even examining the toy flyers he handed them with solemnity. But then, gently, they had explained the harsh reality: "Franklin, son, it's a fantastic toy, but it has a huge price tag. It's an expense we can't manage right now." The boy understood. He wasn't spoiled; he knew the value of money and the dignity of a "no" spoken with love. So, being strategic, he didn't ask for it for his birthday. He saved his wish for a higher authority, for a being of unlimited power and infinite pockets: Santa Claus.
His campaign to contact the magical old man was meticulous and full of faith. He wrote multiple letters—not simple notes, but detailed documents. In each one, he specified with notary-like precision the exact model ("Red Inferno, code J-784R"), mentioned the toy store where it resided, and even, in a burst of pragmatism, attached the cut-out flyer with the price clearly circled, just in case the North Pole workshop needed quotes. He didn't settle for the ordinary mailbox. Trevor and Michael took him to several malls, where there were direct and exclusive mailboxes to the North Pole, guarded by an elf with a somewhat tired expression. In one of these temples of consumption, Franklin, his heart beating hard, handed his letter directly to a Santa Claus with a slightly tangled beard and a "Ho, ho, ho" that sounded a bit forced. The man patted his head and gave him a wink that Franklin interpreted as a secret code of confirmation.
That's why, when Christmas morning passed without a trace of the gleaming "Red Inferno," his disappointment morphed into a deep and bitter indignation. How dare that old, fat, bearded man ignore his specific requests! How dare he betray his faith! The character's ingratitude was monumental.
The days after Christmas had a sour aftertaste. The new toys were fun, sure, but they weren't *the* car. The happiness of the home seemed tinged with a faint but perceptible shadow of disillusionment. So, driven by righteous rage, Franklin decided to take matters into his own hands. He locked himself in his room and, with his tongue poking out in concentration, wrote his final missive to Santa Claus. This time, there was no pleading or technical specifications. It was a torrent of insults, a compendium of the worst epithets he'd heard in the neighborhood and a few he invented on the spot. He called him a "fool," a "klutz," an "idiot," and a "moron." Each word was loaded with the fury of a nine-year-old heart that felt profoundly betrayed.
He knew Trevor and Michael wouldn't approve of such an outpouring of vulgarity, so he acted stealthily. He waited until nightfall and, with the letter folded and sweaty in his hand, slipped out to the family mailbox by the front door. He glanced around, making sure there were no witnesses, and deposited his declaration of war, addressed to "North Pole, Santa Claus's Workshop, In front of the Chief Elf's House." The metallic click of the lid closing sounded like the slam of a defiant door.
Days passed, then a week, then two. The fake snow in shop windows was replaced by sale signs. The Christmas tree was carefully taken down, its ornaments stored in plastic boxes with a pang of melancholy. But for Franklin, each day that passed without a response, without an apology, without the sound of a sleigh landing on the roof to right the wrong, was a greater affront. His anger didn't dissipate; it fermented, turning into a dull, persistent grudge. He crossed his arms and stared out the window at the clear, cold winter sky. That old man in red wasn't just a liar; he was a vile coward. And in his childish mind, the lesson was learned: not even the purest magic was entirely trustworthy. It was a bitter grain of reality, the first of many, embedding itself in the paradise Michael and Trevor had built for him.
It was in the quiet of his room, with the echo of his own rage ringing in his ears, that Franklin found the definitive solution to his anger and resentment toward Santa Claus. No more letters, pleas, or insults were needed. The answer, now seeming obvious to him, was of a brutal and liberating clarity. The seed of rancor, cultivated over months of failed waiting, finally sprouted in the form of a thought as dark as it was simple.
He would kill Santa Claus!
The idea didn't horrify him; on the contrary, it flooded him with a sense of power and control he hadn't felt since his Aunt Denise left him at that foster home. It was the final solution, the only logical way to restore order to his universe. If Santa Claus didn't uphold his end of the magical contract, then he ceased to be a benevolent figure and became a fraud, a criminal who deserved punishment. And Franklin, Franklin would be the vigilante.
The boy, with a meticulousness that would have surprised his parents, began to hatch his plan. To his nine-year-old mind, the plan was simple but effective. It would unfold like this: next Christmas, instead of sleeping, he would hide in the living room, crouched in the perfect spot among the shadows cast by the Christmas tree. He would wait with the patience of a hunter. And when the old bearded man, confident and unsuspecting, bent down to place the gifts under the tree... he would strike. Not empty-handed, no. He would wield the carving knife Trevor used on Sundays, the one with the dark wooden handle and the gleaming blade that had always fascinated him. He would leap and stab him, again and again, until he was sure the "Ho, ho, ho" turned into a final, choked gurgle.
And so it was, with this secret mission branded into his mind, that Franklin spent the next eleven months. His surface life was a picture of idyllic normality. He enjoyed the home routine he shared with Trevor and Michael, was enrolled in a new school where, although he struggled at first, he began to make a few friends. His tenth birthday passed with a not-too-large but overwhelmingly warm celebration: a homemade chocolate cake made by Trevor—with slightly catastrophic decoration but full of love—and a joint gift from his parents, a handheld video game console that left him speechless. On those occasions, his laughter was genuine, his happiness authentic. He loved his parents with a ferocity that sometimes scared him.
But beneath that facade of a well-behaved and loving child, beneath the surface of someone who obeyed without question, diligently did his homework, and performed his household chores with an efficiency that made Trevor weep with emotion, a dark duality was hidden. Franklin led a double life. At night, after Michael read him a chapter from his book and turned off the light, the real work began. By the faint glow of a flashlight he hid under his pillow, Franklin didn't draw cars or superheroes. No. Under the soft race-car-patterned sheets that covered his bed, the boy plotted his grand plan to murder Santa.
His notebooks, the ones he used for math problems at school, had their final pages filled with diagrams and coded notes. Pages where all sorts of branching paths in his plan were traced out. He calculated the timings: "How long does it take Santa to come down the chimney? And to leave the gifts?" He assessed the risks: "If he breathes loudly, will he hear me?" Everything, down to the smallest detail, was plotted by the boy in the secrecy of the night. The base plan, his masterpiece, consisted of a psychological trap. He would leave a plate with the cookies Trevor baked on the table by the tree... but without the glass of milk. The logic was impeccable: after eating the dry cookies, the old man would have an irresistible thirst. That would be the moment when, panting and with a dry mouth, he would head to the kitchen for a drink. That would be his moment of distraction, the perfect window of opportunity for Franklin to emerge from his hiding place and deliver the final blow from behind.
A wicked, dark, and possessive pride grew in the boy's chest every time he reviewed his strategy. He had even developed a disposal plan. What to do with the body? The idea of hiding it in the freezer, among the ice cream and bags of peas, seemed practical. And the reindeer and the magical sleigh... that was a goldmine! His post-mortem plan was to, once the deed was done, wake his parents and show them the loot. Surely Trevor, with his "contacts," and Michael, with his producer's smooth talk, could sell a flying sleigh and nine immortal reindeer for a fortune. With that money, they could buy a bigger house, maybe even with a pool, and he, of course, would have not one, but ten remote-control cars. What a brilliant plan he had. He was a genius.
Finally, Christmas arrived again. The house once more dressed itself in red and green, the tree regained its splendor, and the scent of pine and cookies filled every corner. Everything was still as perfect and homey as the year before, but for Franklin, the atmosphere was charged with a different electricity. He felt a mix of genuine happiness for the holiday and a sharp, piercing nervousness, as sharp as the blade of the knife he had already chosen and hidden behind a thick book on his shelf. Today was the day. Today he would face Santa Claus and bring about justice.
Apparently, both Trevor and Michael, with their finely tuned parental radar, noticed the unusual excitement and nervousness emanating from the boy. Their eyes met over Franklin's head, filled with loving curiosity. "Sweetheart, you're very jumpy today. Is it because of the presents?" Trevor asked, kneeling to look him in the eye as he helped hang a garland. Franklin, with a coolness he didn't know he possessed, averted his gaze and nodded vehemently. "Yes! I can't wait to see what Santa brings!" The lie left his lips with terrifying ease, camouflaged by a wide, forced smile.
But Franklin, it must be said, wasn't an irredeemable sadist. Deep in his heart, there was still a sliver of hope, a particle of childish faith that hadn't been entirely extinguished. That's why, in a final act of mercy, he decided to give Santa Claus a second chance. In the weeks prior, he had written a couple more letters. They were more concise, less pleading, almost an ultimatum. "Dear Santa: This year, please bring the 'Red Inferno' car. It's your last chance. Sincerely, Franklin." It was an offer of redemption, a flag of forgiveness that the old man in red could wave simply by appearing with the right toy. If he did, Franklin would reconsider his homicidal plan. Maybe he'd just threaten him a little.
Night fell, and with it, bedtime. The ritual was especially tender. Michael read him a Christmas story about kindness, which Franklin listened to with secret irony. Trevor tucked him in with exaggeration, making sure the duvet was perfectly arranged. "Dream of angels, little devil," Trevor whispered, kissing his forehead. "Good night, son," Michael said, with his serene voice that always brought him peace. Franklin hugged them back, feeling for an instant a pinch of guilt that he immediately stifled. He couldn't falter now.
The door closed. The light went out. Franklin lay still in bed, counting the beats of his heart, which echoed like war drums in the stillness of the night. The first part of his plan, the most difficult, had to begin: the wait. He had to wait a couple of hours, until he was sure Trevor and Michael were sound asleep. His breathing became slow and controlled, his ears, attentive radars, scrutinized every creak of the house. Outside, the night was cold and starry, the full moon illuminated the garden with a silvery, ghostly light. Everything was in place. The stage was set. Only the main actor was missing. And his assassin.
...
The air in the room seemed to have solidified, heavy and cold as the ice of the North Pole that Franklin hated so much. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the boy, with slow, deliberate movements that seemed stolen from a spy in his movies, got out of bed. The floorboards creaked softly under his bare feet, a sound that to his attentive ears sounded like thunder. He held his breath, frozen, listening for any noise from his parents' room. Only the deep, rhythmic snore of Trevor, a kind of distant engine, broke the silence. It was the signal.
He knelt by his bed, and with hands that barely trembled, reached into the dark, dusty space under the mattress. From the depths, like an archaeologist unearthing a forbidden artifact, he pulled out an old shoebox, worn at the corners. Inside, arranged with meticulous order, was his arsenal. There were no toys here. There were a few jump ropes, which in his mind were not for children's games, but for immobilizing a robust old man if he resisted. A roll of silver duct tape, the same Trevor used for packing, ready to silence any cry of surprise. And then, the pièce de résistance, the centerpiece of his vengeance: the carving knife.
It had mysteriously disappeared in May, during a barbecue. Trevor had searched the whole house, cursing, while Michael calmly suggested maybe it had gone out with the trash. Franklin had remained silent, watching the drama with wide eyes. Now, the blade, stored wrapped in a cloth, faintly reflected the moonlight coming through the window, casting a ghostly line on the wall. The boy took a deep, silent breath, filling his lungs with determination. It wouldn't be easy, but it was for the best, he repeated to himself like a mantra. *He didn't want to, but Santa Claus pushed him to it. Forced him into this. It was self-defense of the soul.*
Equipped with his macabre gear, Franklin slipped out of his room. The hallway, lit only by the star-shaped nightlight Trevor had installed, seemed like a canyon of elongated, threatening shadows. He passed with special stealth in front of the closed door of his parents' bedroom. For a moment, he imagined the door opening and Michael appearing, gently asking what he was doing awake. His heart gave a violent lurch, but the door remained still. He went down the stairs one by one, pressed against the wall, avoiding the steps he knew creaked. Every sound of the sleeping house—the tick-tock of the wall clock, the distant hum of the fridge—was amplified in his ears, mingling with the frantic drumming of his own pulse.
Finally, he reached the living room. It was a space transformed by darkness. The Christmas tree, so cheerful and cozy by day, was now a black, twisted silhouette against the window, its unlit lights like blind eyes. The piled gifts were mysterious lumps. Franklin chose his hiding spot: the narrow space between the large sofa and the wall, covered by a heavy curtain. From there, he had a perfect view of the tree and the fireplace (which was fake, but Santa, supposedly, had his magical ways). He settled in, the cold knife gripped tightly in one hand and the ropes and tape in the other. And the wait began.
At first, the anticipation was electric, a tingling throughout his body. Every passing minute brought him closer to the moment of truth. He peered into the darkness, imagining he could see the first movement in the chimney, hear the scrape of boots on the roof. But the minutes began to crawl forward with a crushing heaviness. Then they became hours, stretching into an eternity, a desert of empty, silent time. The darkness enveloped the house like a damp blanket, and the cold from the floor began to climb up his legs, sending shiver after shiver through him. Outside, through the window, the neighbors' Christmas lights blinked with a mocking cheer, decorating a scene that for Franklin was becoming increasingly absurd and grim.
Despair began to gnaw at his resolve, first as a slight tickle, then as a deep bite. *Santa wasn't coming*. And in the pit of that despair, forbidden thoughts arose, ideas his mind had violently rejected for years, but which now, in the icy solitude and fatigue, found fertile ground. *Maybe... Santa didn't exist.* The revelation hit him like a punch in the stomach. Maybe it was just parents who put out the gifts. *That would explain everything.* It would explain why Ethan, the rich kid in his class, always got the latest console and the most expensive bike, even though he was a bully who never did his homework. The "naughty and nice list" was a sham. The magic was a fairy tale. Everything was... money and lies. A sharp pain, deeper than that of the car he didn't receive, shot through his chest. He had been deceived. By everyone.
It was at that precise moment of existential crisis, when his resentment was beginning to shift from a mythical old man to something more diffuse and confusing, that the house door—not the chimney, but the main front door—made a sound. A metallic click, followed by the barely audible squeak of hinges. Franklin tensed like a spring, his heart seeming to stop. *Someone was coming in!* Despair evaporated, replaced by a wave of pure adrenaline. *It must be Santa!* He couldn't believe it. *It was him!* But... coming in through the door? Maybe the chimney was blocked.
A figure was outlined in the doorway, against the faint bluish glow of the street. But something didn't add up. This... *Santa* looked nothing like the pictures. He was thinner, almost scrawny, and moved with a nervous clumsiness, not the leisurely bonhomie of legend. He was wearing a big red jacket, yes, but it was dirty and worn at the elbows. And instead of a magical sack full of toys, he dragged an old, tattered sack, the kind used for tools or, Franklin thought with a flash of insight, for dirty laundry. Still, his childish logic, desperate to validate his night watch and his plan, clung to the evidence: red jacket, big sack. *It had to be Santa.* Even though he looked too different from how Michael and Trevor had described him with such conviction.
Franklin's confusion turned into stupefaction as he watched what the intruder did. Instead of heading solemnly to the tree to leave gifts, the man began to search the room with quick, furtive movements. He stealthily opened drawers in the dresser, rummaged on shelves, took objects—a silver candlestick Trevor liked, the TV remote—and stuffed them into his old sack. He crouched to look between the cushions of the armchair. Franklin watched, paralyzed by a mix of indignation and horror. What was Santa doing? *Stealing*? The betrayal was the final straw. Not only had he not brought his car, not only was he probably a lie... but he was also a thief!
Fury, a hot torrent that swept away all doubt, fear, and logic, completely possessed him. That bastard hadn't brought him his remote-control car, and now he was stealing from his house! He gripped the knife with a force that whitened his knuckles, feeling the rough wooden handle against his sweaty palm. Without thinking, driven by eleven months of planning and monumental disappointment, he burst from his hiding place. It wasn't a scream, but a deadly silence that preceded the attack.
He lunged at the hunched figure with a feline speed he didn't know he possessed. He crashed into the man's back, wrapping him in a clumsy but effective hug that sent them both tumbling to the floor with a dull thud. The jump ropes, which Franklin had wrapped around his arm, tangled around the intruder's legs in the fall. Franklin ended up on top, the advantage of surprise and the weight of his rage giving him supernatural strength. And then, without a word, without giving the stunned, dazed man time to react with more than a choked grunt, Franklin began to plunge the knife.
It wasn't a precise attack. It was a frantic, primitive, up-and-down motion, a cathartic discharge of all the rage a child who didn't get his toy could harbor. The blade met resistance, a horrible, wet sound Franklin didn't register, deafened by the blood pounding in his ears. "Take that, you damn Santa! Why won't you ever bring me the car I want! Die, die...!" he hissed through clenched teeth, each word a hiss laden with tears of fury, each stab an exclamation point at the end of a letter renouncing innocence.
Until the living room lights snapped on, bathing the scene in a brutal, raw clarity.
"Franklin… what are you doing?"
Trevor's voice wasn't a shout. It was a hoarse, ragged sound, laden with an incredulity so profound it seemed like physical pain. Franklin froze mid-motion, his arm raised, the knife dripping. He blinked, blinded by the light. Trevor stood there in his bathrobe, his sparse dark hair disheveled, his face deathly pale. He wasn't looking at Franklin with anger, but with a horror that went beyond understanding. His gaze was fixed on the body beneath Franklin.
Slowly, the boy looked down.
The man was no longer moving. He wasn't breathing. And now, under the merciless electric light, Franklin could see the details that the darkness and his blind fury had hidden. The red jacket wasn't a Santa uniform; it was a stained, old fireman's jacket. The face wasn't that of a kind old man with a white beard; it was the face of a young, gaunt man, with angular, dirty features, several days' worth of stubble, and eyes that were open, glassy, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A dark trickle snaked from his slightly parted mouth. There was no magical sack, only a tattered canvas bag, from which Trevor's candlestick protruded.
An absolute silence, more deafening than any noise, filled the room. Franklin looked at the knife in his hand, then at the body, then at Trevor's devastated face, which seemed to have aged ten years in ten seconds. Understanding, slow and glacial, began to seep into his mind, clearing away the red fog of his rage.
He wasn't Santa Claus.
He was a burglar.
And he…
Oops…
…
The air in the master bedroom was thick, laden with the residual scent of interrupted sleep, the burglar's cheap cologne, and the faint but persistent ferocity of metal and adrenaline that still seemed to emanate from Franklin. The dawn light, a pale, cold gray, was beginning to filter through the edges of the blinds, painting ghostly lines on the carpet. In the center of the room, the scene was a picture of fractured domesticity.
Michael was propped up on the pillows, still wrapped in his blue flannel pajamas, the blanket up to his waist. His face, normally serene and composed, was marked by pillow creases and an expression of stupefaction he couldn't seem to dispel. He didn't seem fully present, as if a crucial part of his consciousness was still anchored in some peaceful dream, refusing to board the reality that Trevor, pale and wide-eyed, had just dumped in his lap.
Franklin, standing beside the bed, was a heartbreaking sight. The "pretty obvious stains" Trevor had mentioned in a broken voice were, in the lamplight, much more than stains. They were dark, sticky splotches on the sleeves of his superhero pajamas, a macabre drip on the backs of his small hands, and even a dry speck on his cheek that he didn't dare rub off. He looked like a tiny soldier returning from a private, terrible war. Beside him, Trevor, now dressed in a robe over his pajamas, maintained a cautious physical distance, as if Franklin were an unstable artifact. In his hand, held awkwardly as if it burned, was the carving knife, now wrapped in a kitchen towel already tinged with a dark red at one end. He had "confiscated" it with a quick, shaky movement in the living room, after Franklin, paralyzed by shock, had dropped it upon seeing the expression on his face.
After Trevor's chaotic account—a torrent of fragmented words about "Santa," "knife," "burglar," and "oh my God, Michael, there's a dead man in the living room"—a heavy silence had followed, broken only by the boy's agitated breathing. It was then that Michael, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as if trying to massage comprehension into them, spoke for the first time. His voice was hoarse from sleep, but it had that slow, deliberate calm he used in the tensest production meetings.
"So let me get this straight…," he said, leaving the phrase hanging in the stale air of the bedroom. He wasn't looking directly at Franklin, but at a point on the wall ahead, as if reading an especially absurd script. "This guy broke in to steal."
Franklin, feeling the weight of both gazes upon him, lowered his head. The flush burning his ears and neck was a fire of pure shame. "Yes," he replied, a minimal, muffled word that seemed to sink into the carpet.
"And you thought he was Santa Claus." Michael continued, articulating each syllable with a didactic clarity, trying to fit together the pieces of the absurdity his husband had told him. He was still fighting the stupor of sleep, his producer's mind trying to find the logical *plot twist* in this domestic nightmare.
"Yes…" Franklin replied again. In hindsight, under the harsh morning light and the adult gaze of his parents, the entire enterprise—the months of planning, the diagrams under the sheets, the wait in the dark—seemed monumentally stupid, childish in the worst sense of the word. His shame, already unbearable, swelled into a physical nausea. Beside him, Trevor let out a long, trembling sigh, shaking his head slowly as if replaying the scene in the living room over and over, unable to believe it.
"But he was actually a burglar…" Michael went on, his blue eyes, marked by crow's feet of fatigue and age, finally settled on Franklin. Those eyes, which usually sparkled with irony or tenderness, were now clouded by the fog of sleep and deep bewilderment. It seemed like he might close them at any moment, turn over, and sink back into the pillow, banishing the absurdity to the realms of the unconscious. "...and you started stabbing him."
The phrase, uttered with that chilling simplicity, exposed the brutality of the act without adornment. Franklin shivered. There were no euphemisms, no magic, no childish justice. Just a man and a knife. "Yes…" was all he could muster. He had nothing else to say. There was no explanation that wouldn't sound like madness or a malevolence he himself didn't understand. The entire situation was exactly as Michael was reconstructing it, with the ruthless precision of a prosecutor.
Michael blinked slowly, processing. Then, he tilted his head with an exaggerated slowness, as if the movement required enormous physical effort. He sighed from the very depths of his being, a sound that seemed to drag with it the last vestiges of sleep and normalcy. "Is he alive?" he asked, his tone curiously flat, almost practical, as if inquiring about the state of the washing machine.
Franklin bit his lower lip until he nearly drew blood. The image of the body in the living room, motionless under the light Trevor had turned on, returned to him with a vivid, grotesque clarity. The crumpled posture, the livid pallor already staining the skin, the dark pool slowly spreading on the beige carpet Trevor worked so hard to clean… No, he didn't seem very alive at all. "He's not moving anymore…" he murmured, avoiding Trevor's gaze, which now held not just incredulity, but a silent, terrified reproach.
There was a pause. Michael nodded almost imperceptibly, absorbed in his own thoughts. Then, with a simplicity that left Franklin momentarily breathless, he said: "Okay."
One words. *Okay*. Instant, sweet, dizzying relief flooded the boy. The tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed a millimeter. Was it possible? Maybe he wasn't in as much trouble as he thought? Maybe Michael, with his movie-director calm, saw a solution where he only saw catastrophe? A timid, rash smile began to touch his lips.
"Michael!" Trevor's exclamation was a whip-crack in the quiet of the room. It wasn't a shout, but a voice laden with desperate urgency, a *have you completely lost your mind?* It acted as a reality check, shaking Michael from his contemplative stupor.
Michael blinked, as if being woken up for a second time. He let out another sigh, even deeper and more resigned than the previous ones, and began to move. He sat up in bed, the bones in his back audibly cracking in the stillness. He rubbed his face with both hands, stretching the skin, then ran his fingers through his disheveled brown hair. He looked like a man who, after a long day, faces a particularly thankless and inevitable household chore. The same weary resolve he showed when the sink was clogged or when the garden fence needed painting.
He got up with deliberation, stretching again as several more bones emitted small, protesting pops. He looked at Franklin, then at Trevor, then towards the door, as if visualizing the problem waiting downstairs. There was no panic in his eyes. No anger. There was, above all, a monumental fatigue and immediate pragmatism.
"It's fine," he repeated, but this time the phrase didn't sound like an absolution, but like a foreman's declaration before an unpleasant task. "We'll see how we fix it." He sighed again, and in that sigh, he seemed to bid farewell, momentarily, to the last hope of returning to bed. His gaze rested on the knife wrapped in the towel Trevor held, then on his son's stained hands. "But first, Franklin," he said, and his tone acquired for the first time a note of quiet, firm authority, "go to the bathroom and wash up. Wash up very well. And those clothes… put them in a bag. Trevor, love, I need you to go down and… cover that with something. The blanket from the sofa, the wool one. And make sure the front door is locked."
They were orders. Clear, concrete, free of hysteria. They weren't the words of a father comforting a son after a nightmare, but of a commander preparing the ground for a cleanup operation. Franklin, confused between the remnant of relief and the new, strange terror evoked by Michael's calm, nodded and left the room in silence, heading to the bathroom, feeling for the first time the sticky, metallic weight of the blood on his skin, not as a trophy of justice, but as evidence of a mistake too big to understand.
…
The next hours passed for Franklin like a dream—the kind that is neither nightmare nor fantasy, but a succession of blurred, disconnected images tinged with an oppressive unreality. It was the early morning of Christmas Day, a dawn that dragged itself with a guilty slowness. The sky, seen through the back window of the pickup truck. The streets of Los Santos, normally a river of metal and noise at that hour, were deserted, silent. Only the occasional lone car, perhaps a late traveler or an insomniac soul like them, crossed like a ghost. The fake snow on rooftops and the still-blinking decorations here and there now seemed like the props of an empty stage, a farce that had ended badly. It was Christmas morning, after all, and the world slept its sleep of peace and glory, oblivious to the cold sweat soaking Franklin's neck.
The boy was sunk into the backseat of the truck, Trevor's old, robust pickup. The seat fabric smelled of spilled coffee, garden dirt, and now, to Franklin, of something new and metallic that he thought he could perceive even though he knew it was impossible. His hands, scrubbed almost raw with dish soap under Michael's watchful eye, were clean, but they itched, as if the memory of the grime had embedded itself under his skin. He was dressed in clean clothes: jeans and a thick sweater that Trevor had put on him almost blindly, with brusque, efficient movements. There had been no words of comfort during the process, only precise instructions: "Scrub here. No, harder. The water needs to be hotter."
In the front, Trevor drove. His posture was a block of tension. Back straight, hands gripping the steering wheel with a force that whitened his knuckles, eyes fixed on the empty road with an intensity that went beyond concentration. Every muscle in his neck was taut. He didn't turn on the radio. The only sounds were the rumble of the engine and Michael's voice, sitting beside him, talking on the phone in a low, firm tone completely devoid of Christmas cheer.
"...Yes, a domestic incident. No, nothing we can't handle... I need that area clear of cameras for, say, a couple of hours this morning... I know what I said last month, Lester, but this is different. It's *family*... The price is the price. I'll transfer it."
Franklin listened to the words, fragments floating in the charged air. "Incident," "cameras," "Lester," "price." They were adult words, from a world of transactions and dark agreements that his tired, traumatized mind couldn't, or didn't want to, fully understand. They sounded like the script of one of Michael's movies, but without the music to indicate if it was a drama or a thriller. Michael spoke with the same pragmatic calm he'd used to give orders in the bedroom, but now there was an edge to his voice, a contained impatience Franklin had never heard in him before.
And behind him, separated only by the canvas of the truck bed, was *it*. Franklin didn't need to turn around to know. He'd seen it being prepared. A huge, green canvas duffel bag, swollen with unnameable shapes, wrapped in several old sheets and a couple of living room rugs that would never again see the light of day. The whole package had been sealed with a grotesque combination of silver duct tape—the same kind he'd intended for Santa—and black electrical tape, forming a mosaic of faint and dull reflections. Trevor and Michael had carried it like a heavy piece of furniture, with effort but without ceremony, and had tossed it into the bed with a dull thud that made the vehicle's chassis shudder. Since then, every bump, every turn, reminded Franklin of the presence of that silent cargo traveling with them.
They reached their destination after a journey that felt eternal. It wasn't a dump or a forest, but a desolate, functional place: a grey, rusting cement bridge crossing over one of the sewer channels that drained into the open sea of Los Santos. The air here smelled of salt, damp rot, and abandonment. Below, the water was a murky greenish-brown, moving sluggishly toward the ocean's vastness.
Without a word, both adults got out. Trevor opened the tailgate with a screech. Franklin, pressed against the window, watched them work with a macabre synchronization. They grabbed the ends of the wrapped bundle, Michael by the feet (were they the feet?), Trevor by where the head should be. There was a swing, a heave, and then they released it. The package fell heavily, hit the water's surface with a deep, unspectacular splash, and began to sink, dragged by the slow but relentless current toward the sea. There was no speech, no lingering look. It was an act of disposal, cold and efficient. In less than a minute, they were back in the truck, closing the doors with a sharp click that echoed like a final period.
A strange, heavy silence, denser than any darkness, settled over the cabin. It wasn't the comfortable silence of a family trip, nor that of waiting. Franklin recognized it instantly, with a shiver that ran down his spine. It was the same silence that hung like a slab in foster homes after a fight between the older kids; the same that permeated the room when his Aunt Denise looked at him with those cold eyes, full of resentment and annoyance. It was the silence of broken things that go unspoken, of poisonous secrets that begin to grow in a house's foundations.
The engine started, but the vehicle didn't move. Trevor just stared ahead, his hands still clutching the wheel. Michael watched the channel in the rearview mirror, his phone now off in his lap.
Franklin couldn't take it anymore. The question, small and trembling, escaped him like a poisoned sigh: "Did we do something bad...?"
The reaction was instantaneous. Both Trevor and Michael went completely still, as if the boy's voice had pressed a pause button on their reality. Michael, who had raised his phone as if to make another call to that "Lester" or whoever else was necessary in this new, sinister logistics, slowly lowered it. Another silence, even heavier if that were possible, fell upon them. They looked at each other across the front seat space, a look loaded with a rapid, anguished, adult language that Franklin couldn't decipher. Seconds stretched into what felt like eternal minutes, a silent dialogue of responsibility, terror, and a complicity that had just been born in the most horrible way.
Finally, it was Michael who spoke. He turned around, not fully, but just enough for Franklin to see his profile etched against the grayish morning light. His voice held no trace of the earlier calm. Now it was steely, a tone that left no room for doubt, questions, or reproach. It was the voice of a pact, of a treaty under extreme conditions.
"Franklin, here's how it's going to be. You will never, *ever* do anything like last night again. Never. And you will never, to anyone, at any time, mention what happened. Not a word about Santa, not about the man, not about this trip. It becomes a bad dream you forget. Is that absolutely clear?"
Franklin, under the weight of that gaze and that tone, nodded his head, over and over, vehemently. The fear of his parents' anger was now a small shadow compared to the fear of this new, terrible understanding.
"And in return…" Michael continued, his voice lowering a degree in intensity but not in severity, "...we're going to a store."
As Trevor, without a word, started the truck and pulled away from the bridge and the canal with a smooth but decisive acceleration, Franklin turned his head, confused. The change of topic was so abrupt, so surreal, his mind couldn't process it. A store? Now?
"What… what are we going to buy?" he asked, with a mix of genuine curiosity and deep doubt. He watched as the tension in Trevor's shoulders began, little by little, to ease—not from relaxation, but from focus on a new task, a more normal, almost banal task.
Michael was already dialing another number on his phone. "Yes, it's me. I need to know if you have stock today… Yes, model J-784R, 'Red Inferno'… In red. What time does the toy department open?" His adult words now revolved around something Franklin could understand, but in a context that made them sound just as strange.
It was Trevor who, keeping his eyes on the road now heading toward the city's more commercial districts, spoke with a voice that tried to sound light and failed spectacularly. "Hey, Frankie… what was the name of that remote-control car you wanted? I think I saw some at that big mall."
Franklin looked at him, and for the first time since the lights had come on in the living room, something stirred inside him. It wasn't joy. It was something more complex, a sort of murky satisfaction, a strange and twisted recognition. They had listened. They remembered.
"The 'Red Inferno'," Franklin murmured, almost to himself.
"That's the one," Trevor said, nodding, and took the exit that led to the biggest, most luxurious mall in Los Santos, a monument of glass and steel where Christmas was a spectacle of pure, hard consumption.
A smile spread across Franklin's lips. It wasn't the wide, carefree smile of a child receiving an unexpected gift. It was a small, timid, almost secret smile. A smile of deep and poisoned satisfaction. He wasn't looking outward, at the streets filling with daylight. He was looking inward, at the conclusion his traumatized, confused, childish mind was drawing from this entire night of horror.
He had gotten it. In his own way, bloody and terrible, he had won. He had shown Santa Claus—or whatever stood between him and his desire—that you couldn't mess with… Franklin De Santa. And now, as a trophy, as a strange pact of silence, he was getting his coveted remote-control car. The price had been monstrous, and a tiny, frightened part deep in his soul was starting to sense that, but in that moment, driving down the empty streets toward a temple of consumerism, all he could feel was the bittersweet, metallic taste of victory.