Stealing from wealthy families on Christmas Eve can be surprisingly easy—you just need to keep a few rules in mind. The first—and perhaps most important—is to wear a Santa suit and make sure you enter through the chimney.
Slipping into a house dressed as Santa might sound inconvenient, but trust me—no one ever suspects a jolly old Saint Nick, especially not children.
The next rule? Always keep your “gift bag” stocked with plenty of rope, duct tape, and even a red ball gag. You never know when you’ll need them.
Ben put on the red coat he’d bought from the thrift store and checked his outfit one last time. He had done his best to look like Santa, but there were a few small differences. For one, he was thin, not jolly and round like the classic Santa. And unlike the elderly Santa with his long white beard, Ben was young, sporting a short, black beard.
Ben
He grabbed his red cloth bag, filled with duct tape and rope, and slung it over his shoulder. Ben glanced up at the small chimney of the house and quickly realized it would be impossible to fit through. So, like a classic thief, he decided to enter through the back door. He pressed the door handle and, to his surprise, it wasn’t locked—it opened easily. He slipped inside, quietly. The comforting warmth and the smell of chocolate and coconut cookies filled the house. The Christmas tree lights were on, and beneath it, the floor was covered in gift boxes.
Ben had been watching this house for the past five days, ensuring he was fully prepared for tonight, ready to pull off the perfect heist. He had learned that a 12-year-old boy named Mobin lived here with his father, Emad. Emad was a handsome, young man, a well-known programmer, and incredibly wealthy. Wealth—that was what Ben had come for tonight.
Five years ago, Emad's wife had left them, taking off to another city, and Emad had never remarried.
Emad
Ben planned to find the safe, take the money, and slip out without waking the father and son. If everything went smoothly, he wouldn’t even need to use anything from the bag he carried—the ropes, the tape, or the rest of his “tools.”
He took a few steps forward and glanced at the Christmas tree. On a small wooden table beside it sat a glass of milk and several coconut cookies coated in chocolate. Ben was hungry, and the cookies looked irresistibly tempting. So he decided to take one—and ate it. He loved it immediately. They were delicious.
A few seconds later, dizziness washed over him. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. He dropped the cookie onto the floor and muttered,
“Damn it—what the hell was in—”
But he couldn’t finish. His sight went fuzzy, the room spun, and he collapsed. He wasn’t completely unconscious, though—still clinging to a thin thread of awareness. And with that faint vision, he saw a 12-year-old boy walking toward him.
The boy was wearing a red pajama set patterned with tiny green Christmas trees. Even in his hazy state, Ben remembered the boy’s name: Mobin.
Mobin crouched down in front of Ben’s fallen body, a mischievous smile curling on his lips as he said:
“Finally caught you, Santa! Merry Christmas.”
To be continued...
