I wake to a shiver, a bone-deep chill pressing into my skin. There’s no warmth—no fur. I try to curl, but the roughness of a countertop scrapes my bare back. My claws, once sharp, graze uselessly over the slick metal. The only sounds are the low hum of a refrigerator and the faint, rhythmic rustle of paper—dough, maybe—nearby. My mind claws for clarity, but all I find is a rising, icy panic.

I twist my head, muscles trembling, and see him: the rabbit, impossibly calm. His paws dusted in flour, he hums a tune as his ears twitch with focus. The world narrows to his steady hands and the dough he spreads. I try to speak, but my throat is dry, my voice a garbled rasp. I want to snarl, to demand, to plead, but only a choked whimper escapes.

Me: "Please—what are you doing? I’m not supposed to be here. Let me go. I—I can help you. Anything. Just—don’t do this." The rabbit cocks his head, lips curling in a soft, unsettling smile. "Oh, you always want to help when you’re on the counter, don’t you?" His voice is gentle, almost singsong, as he lays the dough over my shivering form. I recoil, muscles straining, but he presses down, tucking the edges tight. Each brush of his paw is precise and unhurried.

I thrash, desperate, but my limbs are pinned, my strength sapped by cold and confusion. My mind races—memories of running wild, of chasing, of being feared. Now, I am the quarry. My nostrils flare at the scent of butter and fear, my thoughts darting: Can I bargain? Bluff? Escape? "This isn’t right. You’re supposed to run. I’m supposed to hunt. You don’t have to do this," I gasp, voice trembling. "Stories change, wolf. I’m just following the recipe," he replies, lifting me with surprising strength.

The heat licks at my skin, sharp and immediate, and sweat beads on my forehead. My heart hammers, loud as the oven’s roar, each breath shallow and ragged. The rabbit’s gaze never wavers as he brushes my pastry shell with egg wash, sealing me in. The oven door swings shut, the clang echoing through my skull.

Inside, panic blooms; I claw at the dough, but it’s tight and sticky, molding to every inch of me. The air is thick, sweet and cloying, my senses overwhelmed by the rush of rising temperature. My mind flickers between indignation—how dare prey do this to me?—and a desperate, irrational hope that maybe, somehow, I’ll wake and find my fur returned. But as the heat closes in and the rabbit’s silhouette fades behind glass, all that’s left is a single, shuddering thought: I am no longer the hunter.