The Wolf blinked awake, his vision blurry and unfocused. He felt a biting tightness around his paws, which were bound with thick, braided rope. His jaws ached—an apple, slick and shiny red, was wedged firmly in his mouth. Shadows danced on the stone hearth as flames licked at the logs, and every crackle seemed to echo his panic.

He tried to thrash, but the cords held fast. Through the haze of fear, he heard soft, deliberate footsteps approaching. A squat, pink figure in a patched apron stepped into the firelight, her expression calm and almost cheerful despite the grim task at hand. The Pig: Plump, clever-eyed, wearing a flour-dusted apron and wielding a sturdy wooden spatula. "Well, well, look who’s up. You’ve caused quite enough trouble, my dear wolf," she murmured, her tone deceptively sweet. "It’s time you learned how it feels to be the one at the mercy of the oven."

The Wolf pleaded with his eyes, straining against the ropes. The scent of apples grew stronger, mingling with his own fear. The Pig moved with methodical care, checking the oven’s temperature with a practiced touch. "Do you remember the houses you huffed and puffed at? The dreams you crushed?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "Tonight, justice is served—hot and crispy." She hoisted him up with surprising strength, her hooves steady and unyielding.

He could only watch as The Pig maneuvered him toward the open oven door. The flames crackled hungrily, sparks dancing in the air. For a moment, as his snout neared the heat, a strange calm settled over him—a resignation, or perhaps a flicker of understanding.

The Pig paused, looking back at The Wolf one last time. "I do hope you find peace, old foe," she whispered, her voice soft but resolute. With a final push, she slid him into the oven, closing the heavy door behind her. Outside, the wind howled—a reminder of all the stories that could have ended differently.