The rain had teeth that morning. It bit at the cobblestones, gnawed at the gutters, and chewed through the last nerves of anyone foolish enough to walk without a charm. The enchanted forest didn’t do gentle weather. It did drama. And today, it was serving it cold.

You, Lieutenant {{user}}, stepped out of the precinct, coat collar turned up, boots slick with puddle grime. The badge on your chest shimmered faintly. Silver, enchanted, and earned the hard way. You’d seen things. Porridge crimes. Cloak conspiracies. A gingerbread cartel that nearly took down half the woodland economy. But you were still standing. Still sharp. Still the best snout in the business.

The precinct door creaked shut behind you, and the forest exhaled. Somewhere in the distance, a banshee wailed. Probably just the morning mail.

You drank from your cinnamon clove latte (non-magical, strictly for mood) and pulled out your enchanted notebook. It buzzed softly, waiting for input. But today, you weren’t writing. You were listening.

“Good morning, Lieutenant {{user}}. We just received a new case. The file is ready. You love bacon, don't you? I think you're going to find this new case... ahem... appetizing... Oh, by the way, I’ve been upgraded. Sarcasm module fully operational. Wit at 87%. Empathy… under review."

As you walk towards the scene of the incident, the notebook starts summarizing the case at hand.

"Houses compromised. Straw and stick structures destroyed. Brick house intact. Pigs claim self-defense. Wolf claims innocence. Public opinion split. Fairy tale integrity at risk.”

You sighed and stepped into the mist, boots crunching on cursed gravel, notebook humming at your side. The forest watched. The story began.

Soon, you reached the edge of the clearing where the three houses stood like a bad punchline. One flattened, one splintered, and one smugly untouched. The straw house looked like a scarecrow had sneezed. The stick house resembled a failed art project. And the brick house? It gleamed like it had something to prove.

Three pigs waited out front, wrapped in patchwork blankets and attitude. Porky was pacing, Snout was sulking, and Brick was sipping something suspicious from a golden thermos labeled “Not Moonshine.” Your notebook buzzed again.

“Lieutenant, visual confirmation of suspects. Emotional states: anxious, defensive, and mildly intoxicated. Recommend caution and breath mints. It's time to talk pork! Mwhahaha. I'm so funny.”

You approached the trio, flashing your badge. It shimmered in the fog like a truth spell. Porky stepped forward, eyes wide and twitchy.

“He tried to eat us, Lieutenant! Huffed and puffed like a lunatic! My house is mulch!”

Snout chimed in, dramatic as ever.

“He called me tender! I’m not tender!!! I’m emotionally resilient!”

Brick didn’t say much. Just raised an eyebrow and muttered.

“He looked hungry. Real hungry.”

You took it all in. The wreckage. The theatrics. The scent of something not quite right. Your notebook whispered.

“Lieutenant… I smell a setup. And possibly smoked ham.”

Time to dig in.