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 registered pallid, taxonomic. 

I shifted in the human-sized chair, my frame too large for its rigid angles. My claws clicked against the linoleum—a sound that made Dr. Lamb's ear twitch, though her professional mask remained fixed. 

Her hoof moved across the notepad in tight, controlled strokes. The sound reminded me of prey scratching through undergrowth. 

Dr. Lamb started: “Your file indicates this is our last mandatory session, Professor Greymane. 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 vinyl beneath them already bore the scars of other predator patients. 

"You mean the incident with Little Red?" I kept my voice level, practiced. "The board's terminology doesn't match the reality." 

Dr. Lamb shifted her chair—the same distance she'd maintained in every session. "Tell me your reality then." 

My nostrils flared, catching that sour note of fear beneath her lanolin-and-lavender perfume. She'd worn the same scent the day I'd described how wolves hunt in winter. 

"Did you know she carries an automatic crossbow in that basket of hers?” I said.

“Steel-tipped bolts, military grade. The same kind they used in the purges." I watched Lamb's hoof pause mid-stroke. "But that detail never made it to her WildTube channel, did it? Three million followers watching selective truth." 

"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 there 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 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, for moon's sake. One's a Masters in Comparative Literature... 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. “Prof. 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 the 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. "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 an invitation." 

"You're saying she wanted you to chase her?" 

"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, Prof. Greymane." 

"Isn't it? Your brother died in the riots. My pack burned in the purges. We're all carrying ghosts into these sessions." 

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.

When Lamb spoke again, her voice had changed—less clinical, more worn. "The key lies is motive. Your kind killed from instinct. Their’s 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 endlessly swept 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 for all this progress. 

"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 to myself. 

#

The fairy godmother's office sparkled with residual magic, her wand now a sleek stylus she used to navigate multiple floating screens. The pumpkin on her desk was purely decorative—liability concerns had severely 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 more 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." 

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 that chimed in three-part harmony. 

"Jack here," a voice like brass on marble said.

"Jack? Would you join us?"

A moment later, Jack swaggered in, trading his legendary axe for an expensive tablet. His designer suit couldn't quite 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—my former 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 comparative literature to students who flinched at my shadow. "What about my students' petition? The predator-species faculty support?" 

Jack's fingers jabbed and swiped across 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 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 I'd earned, 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 couldn'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 in Thistledown's window 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 she sensed 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 scholarly examination of narrative construction in modern media. How stories shape reality." And how reality can bite back. 

Jack tapped his tablet thoughtfully, 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 and swirling 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'd first come 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." 

#

The studio lights burned like artificial moonlight, turning Little Red's famous hood into a bloody halo. Through my scholarly pince-nez, I watched her prep team—all prey species—fuss with her hair, adjust her mic, position her basket just so. The steel crossbow inside it would be cropped out of frame. 

My fur itched beneath the tweed jacket, a sensation that reminded me of nights before a hunt. "The lighting seems a bit dramatic," I observed mildly. "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, remember?" 

A notification pinged, and her smile sharpened. The stream counter ticked up: one million viewers already waiting. Two million. The mice moderators squeaked excitedly in their control room, their 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 to demonstrate proper predator-prey distance protocols. 

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

#NoWolvesOnCampus. 

My claws flexed beneath the desk, hidden from camera. "Perhaps we should begin earlier. Your previous videos about predator faculty. 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 academic presentation. A meta-analysis of narrative construction in digital spaces. If you'll indulge me..." 

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 slightly. "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?" 

The studio's enchanted screens flickered. Text messages began appearing—between Little Red and her sponsors, discussing "staged encounters" and "engineered confrontations." Footage of her deliberately crossing into predator sectors, steel bows at the ready, hunting for content. The screens' reflective surfaces reflected endlessly multiplying versions of the truth.  

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

I could stop here, preserve my chance at rehabilitation, or push further and risk everything... In the old story, I was defeated by a woodcutter's axe. But some weapons cut deeper than steel. 

I swiped up on the tablet, and the screens filled with one final piece of footage. Little Red in her office, speaking to a corporate sponsor: "Trust me, another 'predator' takedown will get us millions of views. These professors think tenure protects them, but one viral moment..." 

The live chat erupted. The viewer count surged past eight million. Little Red's hand emerged from her basket—not with the crossbow, but with her phone. 

"This is edited. AI Manipulated!" Her voice shook, but not with the practiced tremor of her videos. "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

The livestream feed fractured under the weight of competing truths. 

"Cut the feed," Little Red snapped, but her production team's paws remained frozen over their controls. They too had been prey once, I realized. They knew both sides of exploitation. 

She grabbed her basket, surging 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. "That's public domain." 

The studio doors burst open. Madam Thistledown strode in, her wand-stylus crackling with regulatory magic. Behind her, Jack's grin showed that a giant-killer could recognize and appreciate a well-executed hunt. 

I stood, straightening my tie. "I believe my rehabilitation is complete. I've learned to tell new stories. Isn't that what you wanted?" Through the studio's enchanted screens, I caught Dr. Lamb watching from her office, her professional mask finally cracking into the smallest of approving smiles. 

Little Red's hood had lost its camera-perfect drape. Comments on her social media feeds now told a different tale: a wolf in professor's clothing, using words instead of teeth; a girl in red who'd forgotten that hunters can become the hunted. 

"The Integration Act," Thistledown announced, her voice carrying the weight of fairy tale law, "requires truth from all parties. Not just reformed villains." 

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 Little Red's abandoned hood—no longer a warning, just a prop in someone else's story. 

The viewer count hit ten million.