Chapter 1

Jorge was 34, a software engineer living alone in a modest apartment in Buenos Aires. His life was predictable—morning coffee, eight hours of coding, evening walks, and late-night podcasts. He had a curious mind and a taste for the obscure. One night, while browsing a forum dedicated to experimental sound design, he stumbled upon a thread titled “Dog Brain: The Forbidden Track.”

The post was cryptic. It claimed the audio had been banned from several platforms for causing “neurological dissonance” and “behavioral regression.” Most replies dismissed it as a hoax. Jorge, intrigued and skeptical, clicked the link.

The track was only 3 minutes long. It began with low-frequency pulses, then layered in distorted barking, reversed speech, and a rhythmic panting that seemed to sync with his own breath. He felt a strange pressure behind his eyes, like something was rearranging itself. When it ended, Jorge blinked and laughed nervously. “Weird,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

But the next morning, something was off.

He woke up on the floor, curled up beside his bed. His sheets were shredded. His mouth tasted like fabric. He chalked it up to sleepwalking, but as he brushed his teeth, he noticed his tongue was longer—thicker. His gums itched. He dismissed it, blaming stress.

Over the next few days, the changes accelerated.

Jorge began craving meat—raw, bloody, unseasoned. He stopped using utensils, preferring to eat with his mouth directly from the plate. His sense of smell sharpened dramatically. He could detect the neighbor’s cologne through the wall, the scent of a pigeon on the balcony, the faint musk of his own sweat. He started growling in his sleep.

His posture deteriorated. Sitting upright became uncomfortable. He found himself crouching, then crawling. His nails thickened, yellowed, and curved. Hair sprouted along his spine and forearms. He avoided mirrors, but one glance revealed his ears had shifted—higher, pointier. His pupils were round no longer; they had narrowed into slits.

Jorge tried to seek help. He visited a neurologist, but the moment he entered the clinic, he panicked. The antiseptic smell, the fluorescent lights—it overwhelmed him. He bolted, sprinting on all fours through the streets, dodging pedestrians, barking at cars.

At home, he tore apart his furniture. He built a nest from blankets and old clothes. He stopped speaking. Language felt foreign, clumsy. Instead, he communicated through whines, yelps, and tail-like twitches of his lower spine. His transformation was no longer subtle—it was complete.

By the end of the second week, Jorge was unrecognizable.

His face had elongated into a snout. His teeth were sharp, his eyes golden. His limbs were canine, his gait fluid and primal. He no longer wore clothes. He no longer needed them. His mind was a hybrid—memories of human life flickered like distant dreams, but instinct ruled. He marked his territory. He chased shadows. He howled at the moon.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, Jorge remained.

He still opened his laptop with a paw, staring at the screen. He still listened to music, tilting his head at melodies. He still remembered the track—Dog Brain—and the moment it all began.

One night, he returned to the forum. Using his nose and a stylus taped to his paw, he typed a message:

> “Don’t listen to Dog Brain. It rewires you. I’m not who I was. I’m not who I should be. I am… something else.”

Then he logged off.

Jorge now roams the outskirts of the city, a creature of code and instinct, half-man, half-dog. Some say they’ve seen him at night, eyes glowing, watching from the shadows. Others claim he’s just a myth.

But the track still exists. Buried deep in the web. Waiting.