He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t rush. He surveys the wreckage like he’s seen worse and survived it with his tail intact. Neon light crawls across his fur—electric, unapologetic—turning instinct into attitude and loyalty into legend. The shades aren’t for show; they’re a boundary.
This is a creature who knows joy is a form of resistance. Who understands that style, like survival, is about refusing to disappear quietly.
The world can burn its palette down to ash if it wants.
He’ll still be here—cool, unbothered, and very much alive.