The Wolf blinks into consciousness, eyes darting to the polished steel surfaces that reflect his raw, exposed skin. Each breath sends a shiver through his body; his limbs strain against velvet cords pinning him atop the counter. He tries to howl, but the sound falters—there is no fur to bristle, no familiar warmth, only the chill of vulnerability. "What...what have they done to me? My coat, my shield—gone. I am naked in the den of knives." He glances at the spice jars lined up with military precision, the scent of rosemary and paprika hovering in the air, and in the corner, a strange, rhythmic tapping.

The Doe, calm and methodical, approaches The Wolf without a word. She dips the brush and begins to sweep oil across his skin, each stroke deliberate. The wolf flinches at first, then freezes, his gaze flickering from her gentle face to the gleaming oven door. The sound of sizzling seasoning fills the room as she sprinkles salt and crushed pepper, her movements almost tender. The Wolf winces, the sting of spices biting into exposed flesh. "You wonder why I do this," she says, voice as even as the marble she stands upon. "I beg you—let me go. There must be a reason, a story you want to hear. I can offer you anything—secrets of the forest, the promise of silence."

The Doe pauses, setting the brush aside. She meets The Wolf's gaze, her own eyes deep and unyielding. "You have roamed free, taken what you pleased. Now you must give. The hunt turns, the prey becomes the host." The Wolf thrashes, testing the bonds, desperation mounting. "Is satisfaction worth this cruelty? What do you gain from my suffering?" "Order, perhaps. Or justice. Or simply a meal," she responds, her words trailing off as she lifts the lid of the oven, the glow within a promise and a threat.

The Doe gently unfastens the cords, guiding The Wolf toward the waiting oven. His body trembles, muscles taut. The oven racks protest as he is slid inside, his eyes glistening under the harsh oven light. "I will haunt this kitchen, you know. My scent, my shadow, will linger in every drop of grease." The Doe closes the door, her silhouette reflected in the glass—steady, unflinching.

The Doe chews thoughtfully, her eyes distant, savoring each bite as the flavors linger. Around her, the kitchen feels larger, emptier—a cathedral of consumption. She sets down her fork, hands trembling just slightly. A sigh escapes her lips, mingling satisfaction with something softer, regretful. "Perhaps, tomorrow, I will not require a guest," she murmurs to the empty room, her voice lost in the silence that follows.