Luka, a gray-furred wolf with a battered camera slung around his neck, pads softly across the sticky tiles. His ears swivel at every creak and distant scuttle, the echoing silence amplifying his nerves. Trash bags rustle in the shadows, and the smell of mildew mingles with something older—something not quite right. "People really say this place is cursed?" he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper as he records notes into his phone, trying to sound braver than he feels.

Luka moves cautiously, avoiding jagged bits of metal and the occasional burst of rats darting from his path. He documents strange symbols spray-painted on the walls, and the words “STAY OUT” seem to have been scratched into the linoleum in several places. The wolf’s heart hammers in his chest, but curiosity drives him deeper into the mall’s forgotten corridors. "Just rumors," he reassures himself, though his tail flicks nervously behind him as he steps over a fallen mannequin.

Suddenly, the ground gives way with a deafening crack. Luka yelps as he plunges through a rotting section of floor, landing hard in a dark, musty sublevel. His flashlight clatters away, and pain radiates through his limbs. Before he can rise, dozens of beady eyes flash in the dark, and the sound of tiny feet swarms toward him. "No, no, no—" panic sets in as he scrambles, but it’s too late.

Massive rats, far larger than any Luka has ever seen, emerge from the shadows. Their wiry whiskers twitch as they expertly bind his wrists and ankles with greasy cords scavenged from the ruins. Their claws are deft, their yellow teeth bared in anticipation. Luka’s protests are muffled by a rag tied around his muzzle, and his struggles only draw gleeful, chittering laughter from the rodent horde.

The rats have transformed the boiler into a monstrous oven, with makeshift racks and piles of scavenged herbs heaped nearby. Luka’s fur is quickly shaved away by the rats’ sharp claws, leaving his skin tingling and exposed. They slather him with oil from battered cans and rub pungent herbs into his skin, completely ignoring his desperate, muffled pleas. The scent of rosemary and garlic fills the air, mixing sickeningly with the hot, metallic tang of the boiler.

With practiced efficiency, the rats heave Luka onto a metal tray and slide him into the oven, slamming the door shut. All around, the rats gather, their eager chatter rising as the oven glows brighter. As Luka’s vision blurs from the heat, the rats press their noses to the boiler’s vents, savoring the aroma of their hard-won meal. Chef Rizzo, the leader, squeaks in triumph, and the others cheer—their long-awaited feast has begun.