The first sensation is cold—raw, biting, and alien against skin that should be furred. The Wolf blinks, confusion flooding his senses as he lies sprawled, naked and shivering, on a wide butcher’s block. The kitchen is eerily silent except for the hum of an old refrigerator and the soft tick of the oven's timer. Something is wrong—terribly, viscerally wrong. He lifts a trembling paw, only to see smooth skin where a thick pelt should be, and panic claws its way up his throat.

The Pig[/@ch_2], dressed in a crisp white apron, face impassive, movements deliberate. The pig’s hooves click softly on the tile as he surveys the wolf with calm detachment.] The Wolf tries to speak, but his voice is a rasp, barely more than a whimper. The pig approaches, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Good morning, wolf. I see you're awake at last. You must be feeling rather... exposed." The words are gentle, almost kind, but carry a chilling weight. The Wolf recoils, instinctively curling tighter, but there is nowhere to hide.

The Pig hums a tuneless melody as he works, never rushing, never hesitating. The Wolf watches, dread mounting, as the pig lifts the dough and stretches it over his body. The sensation is suffocating, the warm, sticky pastry clinging to his bare skin. "Don't struggle," the pig murmurs, brushing egg wash over the wolf's wrapped form. "It's easier if you relax. Tradition demands precision." The Wolf begins to beg, voice cracking with terror, but the pig only smiles, serene and implacable.

The wolf’s mind races, disbelief mixing with horror. The blanket is warm, but it offers no comfort; it is the final preparation before the end. The pig tightens the folds around the wolf, pausing to make sure everything is perfect, then lifts him effortlessly and carries him toward the open oven. The Wolf pleads, voice muffled and desperate, but the pig’s only response is a soft, ritualistic chant, words too old and strange to decipher.

Inside, the world is reduced to darkness and heat. The pastry tightens, squeezing the wolf’s chest, making every breath a struggle. Sweat beads on his exposed forehead, and the scent of baking dough fills the cramped air. His cries are swallowed by the oven’s roar, replaced by a low, panicked whimper as the heat grows unbearable. Time stretches and warps—the wolf can no longer tell if minutes or hours pass.

The Wolf feels his fear ebb into resignation, a fragile hope for mercy that never comes. The world narrows to the sharp, acrid tang of burning pastry and the relentless, suffocating pressure. His final thoughts are of the forest, of running free beneath the moon, before everything dissolves into silence and darkness.