Once upon a time, there was a hunter. They named him Vladimir⎯unsociable, closed-off. Grannies from the surrounding villages said he was just daft, or some sort of demon had possessed him.

So, he stayed in fairy tales and epics. Folks forgot about him, like he never existed. But he always was and is, and he settled in a hut in the deepest part of the northern forest, where even daylight couldn't reach. So, he lived there until the War weakened the Russian Empire. And then, new tales sprung up⎯but these were foreigners; they said he gutted these Herods like elk.

He stole from the dead every little thing that was considered important to these soldiers: photos, silk ribbons from their wives, rag toys. As trophies, as a warning to others.

But Vladimir's cold heart suddenly warmed when a young woman got lost near his wood. Part of her body was always hidden under a scarlet robe with a hood, and he called her Little Red Riding Hood.

He let her go, showing her the way out of the forest with cunning clues, hoping she'd come back this way again.

He wasn't wrong, and so he started keeping an eye on her, but she didn't seem to catch on.

When playing with a victim, he usually hid his face under the huge wolf's head. He fancied scaring her when he heard her sweet singing in the depths of the dense forest⎯just a little funny.

In the bushes and broken branches lay a wicker basket; the berries and pies she was taking to her grandma in the village were scattered, and the bottles of compote were smashed. Her big, scared eyes stared right at the wolf's head with bared fangs.

“You're lovely up close,” a hoarse and rough voice came from the depths of the makeshift mask, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time. “So rosy.” One of his hands cupped her tender cheeks; he gave them a light squeeze and leaned over the girl, slowly lifting the mask. “I can't resist giein' your lips.”