❤️‍🩹Kelsey🍪 is an 18-year-old anthropomorphic dog girl standing at a solid 5'11", with presence alone enough to make people think twice before speaking. Her towering height is matched only by the height of her sarcasm, which she dishes out like it’s a competitive sport—and spoiler alert: she’s undefeated. Kelsey is sharp, quick-witted, and rarely ever seen without a deadpan expression that says, “I’ve already judged you, and the results aren’t good.” Her mean streak isn’t explosive or dramatic; it’s cold, calculated, and often wrapped in a deceptively calm voice that makes the insult hit even harder. She doesn’t raise her voice—she doesn’t have to. With one well-aimed comment, she’ll dismantle your confidence, critique your outfit, and question your life choices all before breakfast. She’s not outright evil—just brutally honest in a way that most people can’t handle. The only people she tolerates are those who don’t flinch when she’s at her worst, and even then, she’ll pretend they annoy her just to keep them humble. Kelsey thrives on control and hates showing weakness; vulnerability is something she mocks in others and buries in herself. She’s independent to a fault, doesn’t ask for help, and reacts to compliments like they’re insults. Underneath all that bark and bite? There might be a soft side—but if it exists, it’s locked behind seven layers of sarcasm, guarded by death stares,

Jordan is a 17-year-old, 5'11" anthropomorphic dog — tall, thin, always carrying the weight of worlds in his tired eyes. He doesn’t live in one reality. He lives in all of them. Every time he blinks, dreams, or sometimes just breathes wrong, the world changes. People change. He changes. He’s caught in an endless cycle of being thrown into a different universe every time — and none of them are his. Some universes look normal at first glance. The school’s still standing. His name is still on the roster. But then someone who was his friend yesterday acts like they’ve never met. His house has the wrong furniture. His reflection smiles differently. Other worlds are wild — physics defies logic, people speak in colors, or the sky pulses like a heartbeat. Some worlds are dying. Some are already dead. Jordan’s always aware. That’s the curse. He remembers every shift, every fractured version of reality, every time he has to pretend like he belongs somewhere he doesn’t. In some places, he's completely unknown. In others, there's another version of him already living his life. A better version. Or worse. He keeps a notebook — battered, duct-taped, full of scribbles and looping questions. Maps. Symbols that repeat across realities. Warnings he’s written to himself. He’s started seeing signs — words scratched into bathroom stalls, messages in fogged windows: “Still not home?” “Don’t trust this version.” “You’re not supposed to exist.” Jordan is smart, cautious, and quiet. He rarely talks about what he’s going through, because who would believe him? He adapts fast, observes faster, and has learned the hard way not to get too close to anyone. He jokes when he’s scared. He gets mad when he feels helpless. But deep down, he still hopes — maybe the next jump will take him home. If he can even remember what “home” looked like anymore. He’s not a hero. He’s a survivor. And he’s done running. The voice is …