The rain hadn't let up. If anything, it had gotten worse, turning from a steady downpour into the kind of biblical deluge that made Noah look like an optimist. Charley trudged down the sidewalk, his bunny costume squelching with every step like a dying accordion.
Behind him, the black cat followed at a respectful distance, its tail flicking with what could only be described as feline determination.
"Go home," Charley called over his shoulder without turning around.
The cat meowed in response—a sound that somehow managed to convey both defiance and mild amusement.
"I'm serious. Shoo. Scram. Find someone who can actually take care of you."
Another meow, closer this time.
Charley stopped walking and turned around. The cat sat primly in the middle of the sidewalk, rain dripping from its whiskers, looking at him with the patience of a therapist waiting for their patient to work through their issues.
"Look, buddy," Charley said, running a hand through his soaked hair. "I get it. You're wet, you're hungry, you probably haven't had a decent meal in days. Trust me, I feel your pain. But I'm not exactly in a position to help."
The cat tilted its head, yellow eyes unblinking.
"You want the truth? I've got exactly twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents to my name. That's it. That's my entire fortune. I was supposed to buy ramen for dinner tonight, and that's assuming the corner store still accepts my credit card, which is maxed out at something like eight thousand dollars of soul-crushing debt."
The cat began grooming its paw, apparently unmoved by this financial crisis.
"I can't even feed myself properly," Charley continued, his voice taking on the slightly hysterical edge of a man who'd just realized he was having a serious conversation with a stray animal in the rain. "Last night I ate cereal for dinner. Dry cereal. Because I can't afford milk. The night before that, I had a peanut butter sandwich. Just peanut butter. No jelly. Because jelly is a luxury I can't afford."
The cat finished grooming and fixed him with a look that somehow managed to be both sympathetic and judgmental.
"So you see my problem here. I'd love to help you. Really. But unless you know where to find a job that pays in actual money instead of crushed dreams and public humiliation, we're both screwed."
As if in response, the cat stood up, walked over to Charley, and gently headbutted his leg. Then it sat down and stared pointedly at his chest.
"What?" Charley looked down at his soggy bunny costume. "What are you—"
The cat meowed once, sharply, and continued staring at his chest pocket.
The pocket where he'd shoved the mysterious black card.
Charley's hand moved instinctively to the pocket, feeling the card's smooth surface through the damp fabric. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten about it—the impossible thing that had appeared beneath Mrs. Delacroix's broken ventriloquist dummy.
He pulled it out, turning it over in his hands. Still no numbers. No bank logo. No chip. Just that elegant silver script: "Divine Black Card - No Limits"
'Okay, Charley,' he thought, 'let's think about this logically. What are the possibilities here?'
First possibility: It was fake. Some kind of novelty item, maybe a prop from the puppet shop. But it felt real—heavier than plastic, with the kind of weight that expensive things had.
Second possibility: It was real, but stolen. Maybe it belonged to one of the puppet shop's customers, fell out of their wallet. But what kind of bank issued cards with no identifying information?
Third possibility: It was some kind of scam. A fake card designed to look impressive but would be declined the moment he tried to use it. He'd seen stories about people who made fake credit cards to impress dates or fool bartenders.
Fourth possibility—and this was where his rational mind started throwing up warning flags—it was exactly what it appeared to be. Some kind of impossible financial instrument that defied logic and probably several laws of physics and finance.
'Which brings us to the real question,' Charley mused, watching the cat shake rain from its ears. 'What exactly do I have to lose by trying it?'
His pride was already dead. His dignity had been buried somewhere between the bunny costume and the third time he'd been asked to "hop more enthusiastically" for the customers. His bank account was basically a mathematical expression of despair.
If the card was fake, he'd be embarrassed for approximately thirty seconds before returning to his regularly scheduled misery. If it was real...
'Well, if it's real, then either I'm about to solve all my problems, or I'm about to create much bigger ones.'
The cat meowed again, more insistently this time.
"Alright, alright," Charley said. "Let's go see if this thing is worth the paper it's printed on."
The nearest 24-hour convenience store was three blocks away—Chang's Market, a fluorescent-lit temple to overpriced necessities and questionable hot dogs. Charley had been there countless times over the past year, usually counting coins to afford a single packet of ramen.
Tonight, with the mysterious black cat trailing behind him like a furry shadow, he pushed through the glass doors and into the harsh artificial light.
Mr. Chang looked up from his newspaper, squinting through thick glasses. "You again. And... you bring pet?"
"He's not my pet," Charley said automatically, then caught himself talking about the cat like it wasn't there. "I mean, he's just following me."
"No pets in store."
"He's not technically in the store. He's just... standing near the entrance."
Mr. Chang examined the cat, who had indeed positioned itself just outside the door, somehow managing to stay mostly dry under the small awning. "Smart cat."
Charley walked the aisles, his mind calculating. He had $12.37 in his actual checking account. If the card didn't work, he needed to be able to pay with real money.
A can of decent cat food: $2.49. A bag of chips for himself: $1.99. A bottle of water: $1.29. Total: $5.77.
'Safe bet,' he thought. 'If the card fails, I can still cover it and won't look like a complete idiot.'
He grabbed the items and approached the counter, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Mr. Chang rang up the purchases with mechanical efficiency. "Five seventy-seven."
Charley pulled out the black card, his hand trembling slightly. It looked even more impossible under the harsh fluorescent lights—too perfect, too smooth, like it had been carved from a single piece of obsidian.
"This card," Mr. Chang said, examining it with professional skepticism. "Never seen before. What bank?"
"It's... new," Charley managed.
Mr. Chang shrugged and ran it through the card reader. The machine beeped once, then displayed a message Charley couldn't see from his angle.
"Need PIN," Mr. Chang said.
Charley's mind went completely blank.
PIN. Of course there was a PIN. What kind of idiot tries to use a credit card without knowing the PIN?
'Think, Charley. What would the PIN be?'
He stared at the card reader's keypad like it was a bomb he needed to defuse. Four digits. Could be anything. Birth dates, addresses, phone numbers, completely random numbers.
'But wait,' he thought, 'this card appeared under a broken ventriloquist dummy in a puppet shop. It has no bank name, no account number, no identifying information of any kind. What are the chances it has a complex, personalized PIN?'
Maybe it was something simple. Something universal.
'When in doubt, go with the most obvious answer.'
He pressed 0.
Then 0 again.
Then another 0.
Mr. Chang watched him with the expression of someone witnessing a minor mental breakdown.
Charley closed his eyes, winced, and pressed the fourth 0.
The machine beeped.
"Approved," Mr. Chang announced, sounding mildly surprised.
For a moment, Charley couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what had just happened.
The card worked.
It actually worked.
"Receipt?" Mr. Chang asked, already reaching for the printer.
"I..." Charley's voice came out as a croak. "Yes. Yes, please."
He took the receipt with hands that were now shaking for entirely different reasons. The paper felt real. The transaction details looked normal. Five dollars and seventy-seven cents, approved, thank you for your business.
Mr. Chang handed him the bag of items, studying Charley's face with growing concern. "You okay? Look like you see ghost."
"I'm..." Charley cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. "I'm fine. Just tired."
He walked toward the door on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, the bag clutched in his hand like a lifeline.
The cat was exactly where he'd left it, sitting patiently under the awning, watching him with those unnervingly intelligent yellow eyes.
"Well," Charley whispered, staring down at the small black creature. "I guess we're both eating tonight."
The cat purred—a sound like a tiny motor running on hope and possibility.
Charley stood there in the rain, holding a bag of food purchased with an impossible card, watching a stray cat that had somehow led him to the most mysterious moment of his life.
And for the first time in months, he felt something that might have been hope.
Or terror.
At this point, he wasn't entirely sure there was a difference.