The Wolf blinks awake, his body heavy and numb. His paws are bound with rough twine, fur matted and sticky. Disoriented, he strains to move, panic rising as he realizes his limbs won’t respond. The metallic tang of blood lingers on his tongue, and the ceiling above seems to pulse with a sickly blue light.

The Goat approaches, the scent of hay and old wool trailing behind him. With chilling precision, he presses a cold razor to the Wolf’s flank, scraping away tufts of fur. Every drag of metal sends shivers down the Wolf’s spine, each strand lost a piece of dignity stolen. The Wolf tries to speak, his voice choked with terror: "Please, don't do this. I don't understand—I'm not a monster, not tonight. Let me go, please!"

The Wolf watches helplessly as glistening apple wedges fall into a bowl, the knife’s edge flashing with every stroke. The sound—wet, rhythmic—makes his heart pound against his ribcage. Cinnamon dust floats in the air, tickling his nose, a mockery of comfort. The Wolf strains against his bonds, whimpering: "You can’t—this isn’t right, I’m not food, I’m alive!" The goat hums an old lullaby, his back turned, deaf to pleas.

The dough presses against the Wolf’s bare skin, sticky and cold. The goat sprinkles sugar and cinnamon over his body, the grains biting into raw patches where fur once grew. An apple wedge is forced between his jaws, sweet juice mingling with the bitter taste of shame. The Wolf sobs, voice muffled: "Why are you doing this? What did I do to deserve this?" Tears pool on the dough beneath him.

the Wolf[/@ch_1] in darkness.] Inside the oven, the scent of spice and fruit intensifies, mixing with the wolf’s sweat and fear. The air thickens, pressing down on his chest, each breath a struggle. The Wolf claws at the crust, thoughts fragmenting—memories of moonlit forests, of running free, now lost to suffocating heat. His mind races: "This isn’t how it ends. Someone, please—anyone—" The world narrows to pain and betrayal.

The Wolf floats in and out of awareness, fear dissolving into numbness. The last thing he feels is the humiliating weight of the apple in his mouth, the betrayal in the goat’s eyes, and the utter helplessness that swallows him whole. The kitchen beyond the oven remains eerily silent, save for the ticking clock and the soft sound of pie bubbling.