The story is of me, Nick Wilde, but it cannot be told by me. This is because I cannot define how much of me is actually myself in the first place. I am sure there had been a literary master who once wrote how, if one were to stretch out one's foot, one would not think of the toes as part of oneself, but in my case, I would not even need to stretch my foot, as I am doubtful as to whether this heart itself is my own.
This is a story to let you know that I, exaggeratedly spoken of like a noble hearted, supremely intelligent hero by Judy, am simply a fox.
A story to let you know that I am mortal and a story of utter disappointment, of betrayal.
The time has come to wake up from the nightmare.