#pi

The hunter buried a dagger blade-side up in a snowdrift, leaving only the tip exposed, then smeared blood on the blade. The blood froze, and the tip became a red popsicle.
A wolf caught the scent and approached, extending its tongue to lick it. It was cold and sweet, exciting the wolf into a frenzy of licking. The warmth of its tongue melted the ice layer, and the sharp blade cut open its tongue. Yet it did not stop, because the extreme cold numbed its pain nerves—it felt no agony, only sensing more warm, bloody, sweet liquid flowing into its mouth. The wolf thought it had found an endless source of delicacies and licked faster and faster, gulping greedily, until it lost too much blood and its heart stopped beating. The wolf never knew until death that this was not the blood of its prey—it was the blood of its own life.
True master hunters never use cages. They imprison you with pleasure.