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
