The Wolf crouches beneath the battered kitchen table, ears pinned and breath shallow, his fur matted with mud and blood. Pots clang above as footsteps stomp closer; the air vibrates with anticipation and dread. Outside, the wind howls, echoing his own fear. First Pig Brother enters, heavyset and grinning, wielding a cleaver stained with old gore. He sniffs the air, searching for the scent of his quarry, voice low and gleeful. "You can't run forever, Wolf. I can smell your terror, thick as smoke." The Wolf's heart hammers as he edges toward a side door, claws scraping on the warped floor. He bursts out, teeth bared, dodging a swinging blade; adrenaline surges as he races through tangled brambles, the farmhouse receding behind him. In the darkness, survival is all he knows—yet the chilling laughter trails him, promising more.

The Wolf limps through the corn, senses heightened, every shadow a threat. He smells metal and blood, a warning too late as a trap snaps near his paw, missing by inches. Panic rises—he is hunted, not by nature, but by minds twisted to cruelty. Second Pig Brother, lean and cunning, watches from the edge of the field, eyes glinting with malice. "You're clever, Wolf, but not clever enough. This is our land, our rules." His voice seeps into the Wolf's mind, seeds of dread blossoming. The Wolf darts through the maze, breath ragged, senses overwhelmed by the scent of fear and the metallic tang of traps. The corn parts as he sprints, escaping pursuit, but every sound—every whisper—reminds him the hunt is far from over.

The Wolf collapses inside, trembling, convinced he has finally eluded his pursuers. The barn smells of old hay and forgotten memories, offering a cold comfort. He licks his wounds, eyes half-closed, haunted by the chase. Third Pig Brother, gaunt and silent, steps from the shadows. His smile is thin, almost reverent, and he carries a butcher's apron, its fabric stiff with dried blood. "Did you really believe you could escape fate? You were always meant for our table." A struggle erupts—sharp, brutal, suffused with primal terror. The Wolf, exhausted, is overpowered, his cries muffled by the barn's thick gloom. The Pig Brother binds him, voice echoing with sick certainty. "The cycle turns, Wolf. Tonight, you become legend."

The Pig Brothers gather, their faces masked by grease and shadow, chanting in low voices. The Wolf, now silent, lies bound—his fur singed, eyes glassy with resignation. The air grows oppressive, the ritual thick with cosmic dread. "We take what was denied. We feast on the beast who once feasted on us." "His fear gives flavor. His end gives power." Their words twist through the barn, warping reality, the ceremony a dark inversion of nature.

A single paw print, scorched and fading, remains near the barn entrance—a haunting reminder. The Wolf's presence lingers in the morning mist, his struggle etched into the earth. The Pig Brothers, now shadows themselves, vanish into legend, leaving only silence and the promise of a cycle unbroken.