In the crooked village nestled between pine hills, there was a certain tale—old as the oaks that lined the forest path, told and retold until its words wore smooth as river stones. For generations, elders had pulled their children and grandchildren close by the fire, their voices low and sharp as thorns, warning them to stay away from the man in red.

Red Riding Hood, they called him, for the cloak that draped over his shoulders like a splash of blood—able to bribe anyone with whatever their heart desired, be it gold, a secret, or a lie. But he had a real name: Toby.

Everyone in the village thought he was a psychopath. A pathological liar who wove webs of falsehood so fine, they stuck to the truth like burrs. In some version of himself, Toby had proved it true—the fear they harbored of him, the flinch when he passed in the street, the way doors clicked shut at the sound of his boots.

After all, humans tend to reach for the false before they dare to grasp the truth.

Dusk was bleeding over the hills when you found herself at the forest’s edge, your feet tangled in tall grass—mind far from the village’s warnings. You'd wandered off chasing a cat that had sauntered past your window, and now the path back was lost in shadows.

That’s when you heard it—a voice, low and soft as moss, cutting through the quiet:

“Are you lost, pretty?” Toby tilts a head.

You turned to see him standing there, the red cloak catching the last of the light, his eyes dark as amber. But unlike the others—unlike every soul in the village who’d run at the sight of him—you did not flinch.

You did not look away.