I awaken with a start, limbs numb and splayed awkwardly. My vision spins; the scent of soap and iron fills my nose. My paws—no, I can't move them. Panic jolts through me as I realize they're bound. The last thing I remember is chasing a tantalizing whiff of bacon through the woods. How did I—? No. This isn't right.

The Pig approaches, clippers in hand, eyes narrowed with businesslike focus. I try to snarl, but it comes out muffled and pitiful. Cold metal teeth bite into my fur, and clumps fall away, exposing my skin to the chilly air. Humiliation burns hotter than fear; I am prey, stripped bare by someone I had once mocked. "You wolves always think you're clever. But you forgot—I'm cleverer," the Pig murmurs, voice thick with an accent as rich as gravy.

My mind reels. This can't be happening. Each brush of the pig's hoof leaves me feeling smaller, less myself. The flour cakes my nose, stings my eyes. I try to twist away, but the pig just hums a tune, slow and steady, as if this is a Sunday chore. "Hold still now—wouldn't want the crust to be uneven," the Pig says, as if I'm nothing more than a rump roast.

The sound of sizzling oil is a drumbeat of doom. My heart hammers so loud I fear the pig will hear it and laugh. Is this what terror tastes like—a mouth full of dust, a body trembling on the edge of the unknown? My mind claws at memories of freedom: the forest, the wind, the thrill of the chase—all slipping away, replaced by the stench of fear.

I'm close enough to feel the heat prickling my belly, sweat mingling with flour. I want to scream, to plead, but pride chokes me silent. The pig leans close, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Turnabout's fair play, wolf. Next time, try knocking," the Pig whispers, as the skillet hisses louder.

I never imagined the story would end this way. Not with a feast, but as the feast. How quickly the hunter becomes the hunted. If only I'd known pigs could be so... resourceful. I close my eyes, bracing for the final indignity, and think: At least I won't die hungry.