Charley Dunst knew three things for certain:
1. If souls could physically wither and die, his had already decomposed.
2. His boss, Mrs. Brawn, had to be a demon in human skin.
3. If he had to mop that floor one more time, he was going to scream!
But instead of screaming, he gazed down at himself and sighed.
He was dressed like a rabbit.
Not a sexy Easter bunny. No. A faded, floppy, pastel blue monstrosity with a crooked tail and one ear that refused to stand up.
The kind of costume that made children cry and adults avert their gaze.
Somewhere along the way, his life had turned into a joke, and no one had told him the punchline!
He didn't even remember why he agreed to wear it. Something about "bringing charm to the storefront" or "being a cheerful face for passing children."
As if anyone in their right mind would smile at a six-foot man in damp fur holding a sign that read "Come Play With Our Dolls!"
He leaned against the store window, forehead thunking softly against the cold glass as fat raindrops continued their assault on his dignity.
Behind the window sat a lineup of blank-eyed porcelain dolls, each one staring out like it had personally judged him and found him severely lacking.
This was his life now—hawking haunted-eyed mannequins and ventriloquist dummies in front of his ex-girlfriend's family business, like some washed-up birthday party reject.
"So this is what rock bottom smells like," Charley muttered, sniffing his soaked bunny paw. It smelled like mildew, cheap laundry detergent, and a hint of broken dreams.
He used to be someone. Not a celebrity or a tech god, but a guy with a future.
He used to be an intern at a boutique investment firm, had dreams of launching his own financial app, and was already mapping out how to buy his parents a new house.
People used to shake his hand and say, "You've got that spark, Charley!"
Then one scandal, one mismanaged trust fund, and one very public meltdown later, it all burned to the ground. He'd lost everything. Money. Reputation. Clara.
Especially Clara.
She didn't dump him right away.
No, she waited a week. Then showed up at a campus event on the arm of Marcus Bravestone, a man with the body of a Greek statue and the IQ of a plastic fork.
Clara's dad, the same man who'd once called Charley "son," now hired him to dress like a bunny and attract toddlers to their dusty shop full of creepy dolls.
Because nothing says "child-friendly atmosphere" like a soggy grown man hopping in front of a window full of lifeless eyes and ventriloquist dummies.
Rumble!
Thunder rumbled somewhere above like even the heavens were laughing at him. And then… he saw it.
A sad, drenched cat.
It was pressed against the other side of the glass, tail flicking, eyes wide and pathetic like it had just failed a job interview too.
Its black fur clung to its bony frame, and for one tragic, unblinking moment, their eyes met.
"Yeah," Charley muttered. "I feel you, buddy."
He stood there, staring at the cat. The cat stared back.
Rain slithered down his neck, worming past his puffy rabbit collar and into his already-soggy briefs. Something broke in him.
"Screw it," he mumbled.
He yanked open the front door of the store, causing the tiny welcome bell to ding with a sound too cheerful for the situation, and waved the cat in.
"C'mon. It's not like you can make the place weirder."
His bunny costume gave a loud, humiliating SQUELCH with each step he took, like a depressed jellyfish flopping across a linoleum floor.
"CHARLEY!" Mrs. Brawn's voice exploded from the back like a war trumpet laced with passive aggression.
"Why are you inside?! You were supposed to be waving to traffic and handing out the Buy-One-Get-One-Free-Ventriloquist special!"
Charley peeled off his rabbit head, revealing his soaked mop of brown hair flattened against his skull like overcooked noodles.
"It's raining biblical levels of guilt out there. I'm pretty sure I saw a guy building an ark and asking for two copies of every Barbie."
Mrs. Brawn rounded the corner with the fury of a tax auditor.
Her tight burgundy blazer looked like it had been ironed with military precision, and her hair—definitely a wig, definitely angry—was sitting on her head like a disgruntled squirrel.
"No excuses!" she barked. "A little water never hurt anyone! Look at me! I worked through a thunderstorm during our 1996 doll drive! We sold twelve Betsy Wetsies before lightning hit the sign!"
"And you've been glowing ever since," Charley deadpanned.
She narrowed her eyes. "You think you're funny, don't you?"
"Only when I cry."
"WHAT is that?!" she suddenly shrieked, pointing past him like she'd seen a cockroach playing with a Ouija board.
Charley turned just in time to watch the soggy stray cat saunter in behind him like it paid rent, its tail high and dripping.
The cat gave a loud, disrespectful meow and immediately jumped onto a display of vintage ballerina dolls, knocking one clean off the shelf and sending its porcelain leg skittering across the floor.
"THAT ANIMAL IS A LIABILITY!" Mrs. Brawn howled.
"It's a cat, not a chainsaw," Charley said as he tried to wrangle the feline off the shelf, only for it to leap onto the arm of a creepy ventriloquist dummy with a bowtie and dead eyes.
The dummy's head turned with a creak as it toppled backward off its pedestal.
"No, no, no—!"
Charley lunged to catch the dummy, arms flailing, feet slipping on the wet floor, landing with a thunderous, humiliating SPLAT on the floorboards.
Squeak!
His tail made a sad squeak. He groaned.
"WHY are you always like this?!" Mrs. Brawn snapped, storming over like she was ready to kick him and the cat into next week.
'I was trying to show some compassion to a fellow emotionally drenched stray! He gets me!' Charley thought, though he didn't say it out loud.
The dummy he'd tried to save lay twisted beside him, its painted smile now chipped and even more unsettling than before.
As Charley groaned and started to push himself up, his hand brushed something beneath the dummy's stand.
It was… a card.
Sleek. Black. Smooth as glass. No numbers. No chip. Just a single line of silver script glowing faintly in the lamplight:
"Divine Black Card."
Charley blinked.
"What the hell…"