The third pig stands rigid beside the bubbling pot, his hooves trembling slightly as he grips the heavy iron lid. The room, once a place of celebration and relief, feels charged with an uneasy silence broken only by the steady boil. Inside the pot, the wolf is submerged up to his shoulders, steam curling around his snout, his eyes fixed calmly on his captor. "You want me to beg," the wolf says, his voice as smooth as the surface of the water before a storm. "But I am not sorry. Not for what I did."

the pig[/@ch_1] hesitates, the lid hovering over the pot. Shadows lengthen along the floor, stretching toward the pot and the conflicted pig.] The pig had imagined feeling triumphant at this moment, his brothers avenged and his house safe. But now, watching the wolf's unwavering gaze and hearing his emotionless tone, a knot tightens in his chest. His appetite for victory sours into uncertainty, and his grip on the lid falters. "You destroyed everything," the pig whispers, louder than he intends, the words trembling with more confusion than anger. "Don’t you regret it at all?"

The wolf shakes his head ever so slightly, sending ripples through the water. "Regret is for those who think they chose the wrong path," he responds, his voice even, almost gentle. "I did what I had to do. I only regret getting caught. You—" he pauses, his eyes narrowing, "—will miss your brothers more than I miss anything."

The pig searches for anger, for satisfaction, but finds only a hollow ache. He realizes the wolf’s words have burrowed deep, unsettling the simple narrative of revenge he had clung to. The cottage, once a fortress, now feels like a cage filled with doubt and guilt. "Maybe this is the end for both of us," he murmurs, voice barely audible over the storm.

The pig does not slam the lid to punish the wolf, but rather closes it to end the conversation, to silence the doubts gnawing at his heart. He turns away, shoulders slumped, no longer the victorious hero he had imagined. In the silence, the storm outside intensifies, washing the cottage in the uncertain promise of tomorrow.

The pig sits alone at his table, staring into the shadows where the pot rests. He thinks of his brothers, of what he has lost, and of the wolf’s calm, unrepentant eyes. The victory tastes bitter, and as the storm rages on, he wonders if justice is ever as simple as it seems.