She thought she knew the forest well.
Every path, every breath of wind, every crunch under the leaves.
But tonight, the air seemed different - heavier, almost alive.
Beneath the golden branches, something was watching her.
Clutching her basket, Little Red Riding Hood followed the path that was said to be safe.
His boots treaded the dead leaves, his velvet coat slipped into the shadows.
The forest held its breath...
And among the red apples, another scent was awakening - older, wilder.
The Wolf.
He didn't need to show himself: she could feel his presence.
The rustle of a branch, a breath on the back of her neck, the quiver of a heart answering hers.
But this time, she didn't tremble.
Because she knew.
The tale we tell children is a lie.
The Wolf never ate Little Red Riding Hood.
He taught her not to be afraid.
That evening, under the full moon, the prey rose to its feet.
She brought the apple to her lips, biting straight down.
The taste of blood and fruit mingled on his tongue.
Then she raised her head - and beneath the scarlet hood, a beastly gaze opened up.
The forest bowed.
Ever since, a red-clad figure has been said to lurk between the trunks.
Sometimes girl, sometimes wolf.
She no longer shuns the shadows: she has become their queen.
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