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This image is a sequel to this one: [smallthumb]3694659[/smallthumb].

We’re born into roles before we’re born into ourselves. Student. Daughter. Employee. Leader. Little boxes, neatly labeled, waiting to be filled with the version of us that fits just right—or at least, the version that others can understand. We learn early to fold ourselves into shape: soften here, harden there, and hide the edges that don’t align. But what if the box were optional? What if the skin you wore yesterday could be shed like a snake’s, if the face in the mirror could smile back with a thousand different names?

Imagine, just for a moment, a life without shoulds. No [i]"you’re too much"[/i] or [i]"not enough,"[/i] no scripts to follow or masks to polish. What would you become if you could become anything? Would you finally step into the light, unapologetic and wild, or would you still search for a label to pin on your chest—just to feel like you belonged? Some people spend lifetimes trying to escape their boxes. Others never realize they’re trapped. But the rare few? The ones who know they’re made of something more fluid than rules? They don’t just break the mold. They dissolve it.

I wasn’t looking for her. Not that night, not ever. The party was the same as always—sticky floors, the scent of spilled liquor and sweat, and the bass thrumming through my ribs like a second heartbeat. I was there to kill time, to drown out the static in my head with something louder, something that didn’t require thought. And then she walked in.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, though God knows that was enough. A supernatural beauty, golden-brown fur, the exact shade of the color of sin, clinging to her like a second skin, hugging curves that made my glass slip in my hand. That latex outfit wasn’t just tight—it was alive, molded to her body in a way that made it seem like it was afraid to let go. Her hair, white and spiked like a warning, caught the light every time she turned her head, as if the party itself conspired to keep her in the spotlight. And her eyes—sharp, knowing, hungry—locked onto mine for half a second before she smirked and looked away, leaving me breathless.

She moved like the party was hers to command, like the rest of us were just background noise in a song only she could hear. I watched her for what felt like an eternity before I gathered the courage to approach. My pulse was a drumbeat in my throat. [i]"Can I buy you a drink?"[/i] I asked, already knowing the answer but hoping anyway. She turned slowly, deliberately, her tail flicking against my leg like a tease. [i]"Depends,"[/i] she said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey. [i]"Are you buying, or are you begging?"[/i]

I bought her a drink. She took it, her nails tapping the glass in a rhythm that felt like a countdown to something I couldn’t name. [i]"You’re bold,"[/i] she murmured, more of an observation than a compliment. Then she pulled me onto the dance floor.

We didn’t dance close—not really. There was space between us, just enough to tease, just enough to make me ache for more. But when she moved, it was like the music flowed through her, like her body was made for this exact moment. Her tail brushed against my thigh, light as a feather, and I could smell her—warm vanilla and something wild, like ozone after a storm. It was intoxicating. I wanted to bury my face in her fur, to memorize the way she smelled and the way she felt. For three songs, I let myself believe I was the only one in the room. For three songs, I forgot how to breathe. Then she was gone.

I told myself it was a one-time thing, a trick of the light and too much alcohol. But the next weekend, I found myself back at the same party, scanning the crowd before I even ordered a drink. And there she was, leaning against the bar like she’d been waiting for me. [i]"Took you long enough,"[/i] she purred when I finally made my way over. My hands trembled as I bought her another drink. She let me touch her waist, letting me hope that this time would be different.

[i]"You’re cute,"[/i] she said, her lips brushing my ear as she pressed a shot into my hand. [i]"But cute doesn’t last, love."[/i] I should’ve walked away. I knew I should’ve walked away. But the way her tail curled around my wrist, the way her laugh sent shivers down my spine—it made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years. [i]"What’s your name?"[/i] I asked, desperate to make her real, to anchor her to something tangible.

She just smiled, her eyes gleaming with mischief. [i]"Wouldn’t you like to know?"[/i]

The third time I saw her, I begged. I don’t even remember the words that spilled out of my mouth—something about my love being infinite, about how I’d follow her anywhere, about how I was hers if she’d just let me be. Pathetic, right? But she only smirked, her claws—no, nails—tracing circles on my palm, sending electric shocks up my arm. [i]"Prove it,"[/i] she whispered, her voice a challenge. So I did.

I showed up every weekend after that, my heart in my throat, my pride in tatters. Sometimes she danced with me, her body swaying just out of reach, her scent wrapping around me like a spell. Sometimes she let me buy her a drink, her laughter ringing in my ears long after she’d disappeared into the crowd. Once, she even kissed me—just long enough to make me crave more, to make me ache for something I couldn’t have. And every time, she vanished before the night was over, leaving me standing there like a fool, wondering if I’d imagined her.

Then, one night, I saw her with him. A yellow-furred dog. They were laughing as if she’d forgotten I existed. My chest burned, but not with jealousy—with confusion. Because I’d seen this guy before, and after they chatted a bit but never exchanged caresses, I saw him hooking up with a Black Wolf, so there is no way… he has to be gay, right? Unless she wasn’t herself at all.

I still go to that party every weekend. I know she won’t be there. But what if she is? What if, just once, she stays? But tell me—have you ever fallen in love at first sight with someone you never saw again?

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This little spin-off was born while I was listening to [url=https://youtu.be/z93TQhdDlCE]"Da Cor do Pecado"[/url] by Fernando & Sorocaba—a song I enjoy for its easy, rhythmic charm, perfect for humming along to while tackling chores at home. As the lyrics played, I found myself imagining Zaccai—my ever-curious shapeshifter—stepping into the golden-brown fur of a wolf girl, embracing the freedom and mischief of a form so deliciously different from his own. [i]"Why not?"[/i] I thought. What better way to explore life than through a body made for sin, a smile made for teasing, and a night made for disappearing? So here’s to the what-ifs, the fleeting connections, and the characters who refuse to be boxed in.

[center][b]See more images like this here:[/b]
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Here will be placed all the images of my original character Zaccai or "Zac", which can also be known by its original name: Experiment 18-A.