The wolf sits hunched, paw pads splayed in the puddles of acid. Every breath is labored, the heat stifling as the walls pulse gently around him. He can feel the slow trickle of digestive fluids soaking into his fur, stinging and itching, reminding him with every moment that he is trapped—no sky, no earth, only this fleshy prison. He wants to run, but the space is impossibly tight; his claws scrape uselessly against slippery flesh.
He tries to call out, his howl muffled and swallowed by the fleshy chamber. "Let me out! Please! I don’t belong here. I’m not supposed to be food!" But even if the ram heard, the wolf knows mercy is unlikely. The ram’s body churns, intent on its own survival, and the wolf’s pleas dissolve into the bubbling juices pooling at his feet.
He resigns himself to his fate, memories drifting through his mind—memories of running beneath moonlit pines, the wind tugging at his fur, the thrill of the hunt. Now, he is meat; soon, not even that. He curls into the smallest ball he can, closing his eyes against the burning sensation seeping through his skin.
He wonders if the ram ever felt fear, if there was a moment when the world seemed to close in and escape was impossible. "Is this how it ends for everyone? Swallowed whole and forgotten?" The reflection brings a strange peace—a reminder that all creatures meet their end, in one form or another.
He tries to make himself as comfortable as possible, shifting his weight to ease the aches in his limbs. The pain recedes into background noise, replaced by a quiet numbness. He is dissolving, piece by piece, but in this final moment, he finds a sliver of calm—the knowledge that even now, in the heart of the ram, he is part of something larger.
As the wolf fades, his story—his fear, his acceptance—becomes nothing more than a memory held briefly in the darkness. The ram’s stomach continues its work, indifferent, steady, and eternal. The wolf is gone, but his presence lingers, a silent testament to the cycle of life and the quiet dignity of surrender.
