The Rehabilitation of Professor Greymane

The fluorescent lights in Dr. Lamb's office stripped away all shadows, leaving nowhere to hide. Her wool caught their sterile glare like fresh snow, while my grey fur appeared dull, institutional—the same color as the tweed jacket I'd worn for twenty years of faculty meetings. 

A copy of my latest academic paper, "Predator Narratives in Post-Integration Literature," lay untouched on her desk beside a more recent document: "Incident Report #2847: Unauthorized Pursuit of Content Creator."

I shifted in the human-sized chair, my frame too large for its rigid angles. My claws clicked against linoleum—a sound that made Dr. Lamb's ear twitch, though her professional mask remained fixed. The scratching of her hoof across the notepad reminded me of prey moving through undergrowth, of freshman literature students nervously shuffling papers when I called on them in class.

"Your file indicates this is our last mandatory session, Professor Greymane”. Dr. Lamb's voice carried the measured tone of someone who'd spent years counseling predators. "Shall we discuss what the review board needs to hear?"

My hackles rose before I could stop them. I forced each muscle to relax, keeping my claws visible on the armrests. The leather beneath them already bore scars of previous predator patients.

"You mean the incident with Little Red?" I adjusted my pince-nez, a gesture that had become as much armor as affectation. "The board's terminology doesn't match the reality."

Dr. Lamb shifted her chair—maintaining the same careful distance she’d kept in every session since I'd described the mechanics of pack hunting. "Tell me your reality then."

My nostrils flared, catching that sour note of fear beneath her lanolin-and-lavender perfume. The same scent had filled my lecture hall the day I'd taught Angela Carter's "The Company of Wolves."

"Did you know she carries an automatic crossbow in that basket of hers?" I said, watching Lamb's reaction. "Steel-tipped bolts, military grade. The same kind they used in the purges." Her hoof paused 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 Masters 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 taught wire. Outside, the red sunset sliced through clouds and glass towers. Dr. Lamb's eyes gazed out at its savagery. So did mine.

"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."

I could walk away. Abandon twenty years of building a life here—the tenure, the riverside condo with its carefully curated library, the faculty club membership where even the prey species had finally stopped flinching at my dinner etiquette. Return to the deep forests where stories can't touch me? Or play their game? Get close enough to show what really happens when you push a wolf too far, cameras rolling...

I leaned forward, watching my reflection fragment into a thousand glittering pixels. "I want final edit approval. And access to all footage from the original incident—including what she didn't post."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. A golden spark danced between Thistledown's fingers, her magic responding to something in my tone.

"Careful, professor," she said. "The last villain who tried to expose Little Red's methods found himself trending for... different reasons. The woodcutter's union still has considerable influence."

I smoothed my tie, adjusted my glasses. "I'm not planning an exposé. I'm proposing a thoughtful examination of narrative construction in modern media. How stories shape reality." And how reality can bite back.

Jack tapped his tablet, his old giant-killer instincts perhaps sensing the hunt beneath my words. "Could work. Very meta. The kids love deconstructing their own content. But you'll need to sign some additional agreements..."

Thistledown waved her wand-stylus. A contract materialized, its golden text shifting with fairy tale magic. "Standard enchanted binding. No physical confrontations, no revealing of production secrets, no straying from approved storylines."

The magic in the contract called to older magic in my blood—the power that had let me swallow a grandmother whole, that had given me the voice to deceive the innocent. They feared that power. But they'd forgotten that wolves had other ways to hunt.

I signed my name, letting a drop of blood fall on the enchanted paper. "When do we start?"

The contract flared, sealing the magic. On Thistledown's screens, Little Red was already posting a teaser: "Big News! Meeting my Big Bad Past face to face! #WalkingTogether #ForestToFuture"

"Tomorrow," Jack said, already drafting press releases. "Her special livestream event starts at sunset. Three million followers waiting to watch the Big Bad Wolf try to redeem himself." He grinned. "Wear something professorial. But not too professorial—we want rehabilitated, not defanged."

I stood, adjusting my tweed jacket. The same one I'd worn the day she came skipping down my faculty path, phone held high, steel crossbow hidden in her designer basket.

"One last thing," Thistledown called as I reached the door. "Remember—in modern fairy tales, the villain's redemption only works if it's sincere."

I smiled, keeping my teeth carefully hidden. "Oh, I assure you... everything I do on camera will be absolutely true to my nature."

#

Through my scholarly pince-nez, I watched Little Red's prep team—all prey species—fuss with her appearance under studio lights that turned her famous hood into a bloody halo. The steel crossbow inside her basket would be cropped out of frame.

My fur itched beneath the tweed jacket, reminding me of nights before a hunt. "The lighting seems dramatic," I observed. "Almost like a horror film setup."

"Oh, we're going for authenticity," Little Red said, not looking up from her phone. "Raw, real, unfiltered. That's what my followers expect." She giggled. "Just like our first encounter.

A notification pinged, her smile sharpening as the stream counter ticked up: one million viewers, then two. The mice moderators squeaked excitedly in their control room, tiny paws hovering over content warning buttons.

The red "LIVE" light blinked on. Little Red's persona shifted seamlessly into place—vulnerable but brave, trembling slightly as she perched on her chair across from me. The space between us yawned like a chasm, carefully measured by the production team.

I adjusted my glasses, channeling every bit of professorial harmlessness I'd cultivated over two decades. "Thank you for having me on your channel. I believe there's much we could learn from examining our... shared narrative."

"Let's start with that day in the woods," she said, voice catching perfectly. "When you... pursued me." The comment counter exploded:

#JusticeForRed 

#CancelTheBigBad 

#PreyLivesMatter

My claws flexed beneath the desk, hidden from camera. "Perhaps we should begin earlier. Your previous videos. The ones you deleted after the incident." A micro-expression flickered across her face—there and gone like prey in underbrush.

The viewer count hit five million. In the control booth, the mice moderators chittered nervously.

"This isn't about my other content," she said sweetly. "We're here to discuss your rehabilitation. Your... journey toward becoming a safe member of our integrated society."

I reached into my briefcase, movements deliberately slow. "Actually, I've prepared a short presentation. A meta-analysis of narrative construction in digital spaces."

The production team's enchanted cameras zoomed in on my hands as I withdrew a tablet.

Little Red's fingers twitched toward her basket. "That wasn't part of our agreed format," she said, her sugary tone cracking. "My followers are expecting—"

"An authentic discussion of truth, isn't that right?" I smiled, tapping the tablet. "And what could be more authentic than raw, unedited footage?"

I streamed it. The studio's enchanted screens flickered with raw footage: Little Red crossing predator boundaries, hunting for content. Comments flooded their streaming feeds—from fans and sponsors discussing "staged encounters" and "engineered confrontations."

Little Red's hand plunged into her basket. The mice moderators' paws hovered over emergency cutoff switches.

I swiped up on the tablet to reveal one final piece of footage. Little Red in her office, speaking to a corporate sponsor: "These predator takedowns… guaranteed viral content. And Greymane? He's perfect—a respected academic, integration success story. When he snaps—and I know exactly how to make that happen—we're looking at millions of views." Her eyes suddenly widened, catching sight of the red recording light. "Fuck—is that camera still—? Turn it off! TURN IT OFF!" 

The footage cut to black, but the damage was done.

Little Red's hand emerged from her basket—not with the crossbow, but with her phone. "This is edited! AI Manipulated!" Her voice shook without its practiced tremor. "You can't—"

"Break the approved storyline?" I adjusted my glasses. "But isn't that exactly what you do? Edit, manipulate, craft narratives? The only difference is, I've learned to cite my sources."

The mice moderators were losing control of the chat. New hashtags emerged:

#LittleRedExposed 

#StageContentQueen 

#WhoIsTheRealPredator

She grabbed her basket, surged to her feet. "You've violated the contract. The Rehabilitation Authority will—"

"Will what? The contract specified no physical confrontations, no revealing production secrets. But your own content?" I smiled, letting just a hint of fang show. "You accidentally posted it yourself. Then deleted it. But the Wayback Machine remembers everything."

The studio doors burst open. Madam Thistledown strode in, her wand-stylus crackling with brand-renewing magic.

Behind her, Jack's grin showed a giant-killer could recognize a well-executed hunt. "You ate her alive, Grey."

I stood, straightening my tie. "I believe my rehabilitation is complete. I've learned to tell a new story." Through Thistledown's enchanted iPad, I caught Dr. Lamb watching from her office, her professional mask finally cracking into the smallest of approving smiles.

Comments on social media told a different tale now: "She hunted him for VIEWS?", "Cancel culture gets canceled", #LiarRedRidingHood

Little Red's hood had lost its camera-perfect drape.

"Well," Thistledown said, studying the social media metrics with a brand manager's calculating eye, "it seems redemption comes with unexpected surprises."

I packed up my tablet as Little Red's empire crumbled in the chat window. "A modern fairy tale after all," I mused. "Though perhaps not the one anyone expected."

As I left the studio, my shadow fell across her abandoned hood—no longer a warning, just a prop in someone else's story.

The viewer count hit ten million.