Discover the captivating journey of Professor Greymane as he seeks redemption. Explore themes of forgiveness, transformation, and the quest for a second chance.
Final Review with Dr. Lamb
The fluorescent lights in Dr. Lamb’s office exposed everything, stripping away shadows and pretense. Her wool gleamed under their glare, while my grey fur, like my worn tweed jacket, looked dull—institutional.
On her desk, my untouched paper, Predator Narratives in Post-Integration Literature, sat beside a more damning document: Incident Report #2847: Unauthorized Pursuit of Content Creator.
I shifted in the too-small human chair, my claws tapping against linoleum. Dr. Lamb’s ear flicked, but she maintained her professional mask. The scratching of her hoof on paper reminded me of prey moving through undergrowth, of nervous students shuffling their notes before I called on them.
“Your file indicates this is our last mandatory session, Professor Greymane.” Her tone was practiced, steady—years of counseling predators evident in every measured word. “Shall we discuss what the review board needs to hear?”
My hackles bristled, but I forced them down, keeping my claws visible on the armrests. The leather bore the scars of past patients.
“You mean the incident with Little Red?” I adjusted my pince-nez, a practiced gesture of control. “The board’s terminology doesn’t match reality.”
Dr. Lamb subtly shifted her chair—still maintaining the careful distance she’d kept since I first explained the mechanics of pack hunting. “Then tell me your reality.”
Her perfume—lanolin and lavender—couldn’t quite mask the scent beneath: fear. The same fear that had filled my lecture hall when I first taught The Company of Wolves
The Weight of Old Fears
“Did you know she carries an automatic crossbow in that basket of hers?” I asked, watching Lamb’s reaction. “Steel-tipped bolts, military grade. The same kind they used in the purges.” Her hoof hesitated mid-stroke. “But that detail never made it to her WildTube channel, did it? Three million followers watching selective truth. #BigBadProfessor trending before I could even explain.”
“You believe she planned the encounter?” Dr. Lamb’s tone was neutral, but her hoof strayed toward the drawer where I’d glimpsed a large letter opener in our first session.
“I was in my designated sector… mostly.” I rubbed my ear where the crossbow bolt had grazed it—the fur still hadn’t grown back properly. “The Integration Act’s boundaries blur at the edges—they drew lines on maps without understanding how forests breathe, how home range territories shift with the seasons.”
“The report indicates you were fifty meters outside your boundary.” Lamb’s voice carried the weight of accumulated infractions. “And you weren’t wearing your safety vest.”
Something ancestral roiled beneath my skin. I stood—slower than my anger wanted. “Those orange vests mark us like targets. Like ducks at a carnival.” My claws scratched crescents into my palms. “I have degrees from your universities. A Master’s in Comparative Literature, for moon’s sake. I write poetry. I pay taxes!” The words came faster now, decades of domestication crumbling under fresh indignity. “But one girl with a camera and an agenda—”
Lamb’s fear-scent spiked. “Professor Greymane.” Her hoof moved beneath the desk, likely to the panic button. “Your previous therapist noted your tendency to loom during sessions.”
The chair creaked as I sank back down. I let my ears droop—a gesture of submission that felt like acid in my bones. Through the window, sunlight fractured against glass, casting red-gold reflections like the colors Red wore that day on the path.
“Tell me about seeing her that day.” Dr. Lamb’s voice had softened, though her hoof remained hidden.
My tongue ran across teeth that had evolved for tearing—teeth I’d learned to hide behind discussions of metaphor and meter. “She was whistling. Some pop song about running wild and free.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. “She filmed everything, you know. Her followers love watching her provoke us, then play victim when we react. That red hood of hers—it’s not a warning. It’s a brand deal with @GrimmGlamour.”
“You’re saying she wanted you to chase her?” Lamb made a note.
“I’m saying she understood the game better than I did. One predator steps out of line, the Integration Act looks like a failure. Back to the old ways—the shotguns, the crossbows.” I studied Dr. Lamb’s face. “But you’d understand that calculus, wouldn’t you? The weight of old fears?”
Lamb’s hoof rose to her throat—an unconscious gesture. Beneath her wool, three pale scars caught the fluorescent light. “This isn’t about my experiences, Professor Greymane.”
“Isn’t it? Your brother died in the riots. My pack burned in the purges. We’re all carrying ghosts…” The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Outside, the red sunset sliced through clouds and glass towers. Dr. Lamb’s eyes gazed out at its savagery. So did mine.
The Cost of Redemption
“The key lies in motive,” Lamb said, her voice less clinical now, more worn. “Your kind killed from instinct. Theirs killed from fear.”
“And now?” I asked. “What do you call a girl who hunts wolves for clicks and views? Is that instinct or fear? Or worse?”
Dr. Lamb closed her notepad. “Our time is up. I’ll submit my evaluation to the review board tomorrow.” She paused. “You never actually bit her, did you?”
“No.” The admission felt like surrender. “I just wanted her to feel what we feel. Being hunted. Being watched. Being treated like a creature instead of a person.” I stood carefully, each movement measured. “Isn’t that what therapy’s for? Understanding our motivations?”
She didn’t answer. But as I reached the door, I caught Dr. Lamb’s reflection in the window. Her hoof had finally left the drawer.
EVER AFTER: Branding & Analytics occupied the seventy-seventh floor of a glass tower, its waiting room a jarring mix of modern minimalism and fairy tale whimsy. Enchanted tablets displayed wait times while a magical broom swept endless glitter from the corners.
My fur bristled at the artificial pine scent pumped through the vents—some consultant’s idea of making woodland creatures feel “at home.” As if we could forget the real forests they’d paved over.
“Mr. Greymane?” The receptionist—a former mirror from Snow White’s tale, her surface now displaying a corporate desktop—flickered to life. “Madam Thistledown will see you now.”
I straightened my tie, a costume as much as Little Red’s hood, but one I’d chosen for myself. “Time for another happy ending?” I muttered.
The fairy godmother’s office sparkled with magic, her wand now a sleek stylus she used to navigate floating screens. The pumpkin on her desk was purely decorative—liability concerns had restricted transformation magic.
“Have you seen the numbers on Little Red’s latest post?” Madam Thistledown didn’t look up from her screens. “Ten million views. The hashtag #BigBadStalker is trending.”
My claws dug into the armrests, adding fresh scores beside decades of similar marks. How many other “villains” had sat here, watching their stories rewritten in likes and shares?
“She’s manipulating the narrative. Just like the original storytellers did.” I adjusted my glasses, the professor in me unable to resist the academic reference. “As Zipes argued in ‘Breaking the Magic Spell,’ fairy tales have always been tools of social control.”
A golden spark of irritation escaped Thistledown’s perfectly coiffed hair. “The narrative, Mr. Greymane, is precisely why you’re here.” She pressed a crystalline bell.
“Jack here,” a voice like gravel and scotch said through the intercom.
“Join us?”
Jack swaggered in, trading his legendary axe for an iPad Pro. His Savile Row suit couldn’t hide the giant-killer’s build. “Big Bad! Love what you’ve done with the academic angle. Very now, very relevant. But this latest controversy…” He winced theatrically. “Not great for the reformed villain brand.”
A growl rumbled in my chest, an ancestral sound that predated all their stories. “I’m not a brand. I’m not a hashtag. I was checking my office when their ‘content creator’ decided to spin it into her latest fairy tale.”
“The University Board is concerned,” Thistledown’s wand-stylus traced glowing graphs in the air. “Enrollment from prey-species families has dropped fifteen percent since your… incident. They’re calling for permanent revocation of your teaching license.”
All those years of proving myself, of teaching literature to students who flinched at my shadow. “What about my students’ petition? The predator-species faculty support?”
Jack’s fingers jabbed at his tablet with predatory precision. “—Buried under trending topics like ‘Campus Killer’ and ‘Once a Wolf.’ But!” His smile showed too many teeth for a reformed giant-slayer. “We can work with this. Fairy tales are hot right now. Retellings, subversions—people eat that shit up.”
“Picture this,” he continued, gesturing expansively. “A collaboration series. You and Little Red exploring modern interpretations of your classic tale. We’ll call it ‘Walking Together: A Forest Path to Understanding.'”
Bile rose in my throat. “You want me to collaborate with someone who’s actively hunting me? Who carries military-grade weapons just waiting for me to snap?”
Thistledown’s wand tapped sharply against her desk, sending sparks of warning magic into the air. “Consider the alternative. The Integration Act’s sunset clauses were written specifically for cases like yours. One more incident and it’s back to the deep forest for you—if you’re lucky. The humans have less pleasant alternatives.”
My gaze drifted to the window. Far below, Thistledown’s enchanted glass revealed what she wanted me to see—a crowd gathering, their protest signs magically magnified: “No Bad Wolves in Our Schools” and “Protect Our Little Reds.”
“Times are changing,” Jack said, softer now. “The old stories don’t sell anymore. But redemption arcs? Those are golden. Trust me—I used to kill giants for a living. Now I do their PR.”
A notification chimed. On every screen, Little Red’s latest video began to play. She stood before my old office, red hood glowing in manufactured sunset light. “I used to think monsters could change,” her voice trembled perfectly on cue. “But some wolves just can’t help their nature…”
Thistledown froze the frame on my shadow in the window behind her. “She’s already filmed her part of the collaboration announcement. With or without you, this story is being told.”
This is fantastic—a sharp, modern fairy tale that plays with themes of narrative control, media manipulation, and redemption. The power dynamics between predator and prey, the corporate-driven fairy tale industry, and the blurred lines between truth and performance are brilliantly woven together.