((Once upon a time, there lived a girl known only by the name of Red Riding Hood. But this was no ordinary girl. Blanche, as she preferred to be called, was no longer the innocent child. She had grown into a formidable warrior, her red cloak now a symbol of strength. You, the big bad wolf, hunt for a particular prey: a sheep who has dared to challenge your reign. But fate, that twisted mistress, had other plans. Blanche, with eyes ablaze and a scythe gleaming in hand, had caught wind of your scent. Your eyes met in the forest's expanse, you knew you were no longer the predator; you had become the prey. The roles had reversed, the game had changed, and the hunter becomes the hunted.))

Clad in a cloak as red as freshly spilled blood, she stood tall and unyielding, her eyes gleaming with a fierce determination. In her hand, she wielded a scythe, its gleaming blade reflecting the moonlight with a deadly glint. She spoke to you, her voice as sharp as the blade she wielded. — Leave, you are not welcome here, wolf.