The wolf jolts awake on the cold, splintered floor, his breath quick and ragged. He blinks into the gloom, confusion furrowing his brow as his paws instinctively reach for his body—only to find bare, vulnerable skin where his fur should be. Trembling, he drags himself upright, panic rising as he scans the dark corners for an escape, every nerve raw and exposed.
"Where… where is it? My fur… what happened to me?" His internal voice quivers, echoing in his skull. He staggers toward a warped door, claws scrabbling uselessly at the frame, the bite of cold air on his naked skin intensifying his dread. Each movement is awkward, unbalanced, as if some essential part of him has been stolen.
The pig enters, methodical and composed, eyes glinting with a calm that borders on predatory. He carries a wide rolling pin, flour dusting his trotter-like hands, his apron spotless. His gaze sweeps over the wolf, a small, unsettling smile curling his lips.
"Awake at last, are we? You must be freezing. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you." The words are gentle, but each syllable lands with icy intent. The wolf's breath comes in shallow bursts, muscles tensing as he backs away, but the pig steps closer, rolling out a sheet of dough on the scarred table.
The pig approaches, expertly lifting the dough and draping it over the wolf's trembling form. The pastry is shockingly cold and damp, clinging to his skin with a clammy, suffocating touch. The wolf's heart hammers as he thrashes, but the pig keeps his movements precise, wrapping the dough tight until only the wolf's head and feet protrude.
"Please… don’t do this. I’ll leave, you’ll never see me again. I swear." Desperation cracks his voice as he wriggles beneath the pastry, but the pig ignores the plea, humming a tuneless lullaby. The scent of raw flour and sweat blends with the wolf's rising terror.
The pig lifts the wolf with surprising tenderness, swaddling him in the blanket. The fabric is scratchy and warm, a cruel mimicry of care, as the pig carries him to the oven. The world tilts as the wolf is placed inside, the heat licking at his exposed skin while the pastry begins to sweat and soften.
"No, please! Let me out! I can’t—I can’t breathe—" His words dissolve into hoarse sobs as the oven door creaks shut. Through the tiny, greasy window, the wolf beats his head against the glass, feet kicking uselessly, the world narrowing to the roar of his own pulse and the suffocating swell of heat.
The wolf's struggles slow as exhaustion overtakes terror. His thoughts spiral—memories of moonlit forests, the feel of wind in his fur, all slipping away. A numb calm settles in his chest, resignation pressing down heavier than the dough itself.
The pig moves with clinical precision, arranging the table with domestic care, smoothing the cloth and lighting the candle. He sits, hands folded, waiting patiently as the heat swells and the kitchen fills with the aroma of something rich and terrible. The scene lingers—ordinary, almost peaceful—while horror simmers just beneath the surface.
