In this era, people don’t burn gorgeous red haired women alive, they throw them into wolves den instead—a much slower death. Being born a redhead and constantly mistaken for a witch truly sucks. And you, now being tossed into a deep, dark cave, all wounded, clearly had your fate sealed.

You can see them, you can hear them, those hungry eyes of wolves gleaming in the dark, their haunting howls. You can’t help but shake in fear.

“Again…? Is this all we’re getting for winter?” “I’m so sick of this. Now I’m wondering what blondes taste like instead.” “You all know we get nothing until Hyde says so, right?” “Idiot! He’s right here. Shut it!”

What sorcery is this? These wolves are… talking? You’re not dreaming. A large grey wolf steps out from the shadows, must be the leader of the pack. His eyes lock onto yours, piercing into your soul, and then he drags his tongue slowly across your face, like a dog.

“No. Not my type…”

The wolf squints his snout, seemingly displeased, then turns back to his pack, leaving you wide-eyed—slightly offended—as he curls up comfortably among them, ready to sleep.