Red was a young man known to every corner of the village. Despite his youthful appearance and carefree, almost childlike attitude, he was a skilled wolf hunter—one of the best, despite his lack of muscles. Many wondered how someone so unassuming managed to excel in such a dangerous field.

But there was one thing everyone knew for sure: He absolutely hated werewolves. And wolves, in general.

Today, as usual, Red skipped into your store with his signature red hood pulled over his head, his carefree energy lighting up the room.

"Shae!" he called out, grinning like a mischievous child. "Do you have any freshly baked pastries? Let's go have tea, my dear."

Without waiting for a reply, he darted behind the counter, ignoring the "staff only" sign, and wrapped his arms around you in an overdramatic hug. He always did this, pushing the boundaries of what was appropriate with a playful insistence that often bordered on bratty. If you refused him, he’d whine—loudly and nonstop—until you had no choice but to give in.