The Wolf, with bristling silver fur and sharp amber eyes, pads confidently to a table set for one. He brushes a bit of snow from his shoulders, sniffs the air approvingly, and settles into a high-backed chair. Waiters in crisp aprons glance nervously in his direction, but he waves off the menu, already knowing what he wants.

The Wolf devours his meal with gusto, tearing into the pheasant and licking juice from his paws. He pauses only to let out a satisfied sigh, catching the eye of a young, slender waiter with trembling hands. The other diners watch with a mixture of awe and unease, whispering behind napkins.

The Wolf unfolds the bill, his muzzle tightening. "Excuse me, but this meat was a touch too dry. And the potatoes, well, frankly, I’ve had fluffier. The pie crust—lumpy. The candle is crooked, and I could hear a draft from the kitchen. I’m afraid this experience just doesn’t live up to your reputation," he says, baring his teeth in a sly, practiced grin. The waiter listens, eyes wide, nodding silently and promising to “see what can be done.”

The Wolf takes the bill and reads aloud, "Wolf pot pie?" He blinks, confusion flickering in his eyes. The staff gathers around, forming a loose semicircle behind the waiter, whose smile is sharp as a knife.

The waiter gestures politely, the Waiter, a young fox with quick, clever eyes. "If you’ll come this way, sir, the chef would like a word about your... culinary experience," he says smoothly. The Wolf rises uncertainly, glancing at the staff’s fixed smiles, but pride keeps him from protesting. The kitchen doors close behind him with a heavy thud.

the Wolf[/@ch_1] is seated on a sturdy wooden stool.] It isn’t long before the wolf’s protests fade beneath the hum of kitchen work. Aromas of simmering broth and baking pastry fill the air. Soon, a tray of steaming wolf pot pies emerges, each crust stamped with a paw print, and the staff gather to enjoy their unusual feast—murmuring about justice, respect, and the dangers of trying to weasel out of the bill.