I, Vera, a dying person who does not believe in fairy tales, was forced to become the scribe who records the bloody truth behind the "beautiful story".
My first stop was the well-known "Little Red Riding Hood".
But in the forest, the wolves were holding a funeral for the last cub that died of natural causes. The hunter with the gun aimed at my forehead.
And that kind "grandma" smiled at me in the wooden house with the smell of scones:
"Welcome, kid. Do you know how much money this fairy tale can make every year?"
