Charley sat on his lumpy couch, staring at the black card while Lucky groomed himself with the methodical precision of a tiny, furry accountant.
The digital timer glowed softly in the dim light of his apartment: 00:47:23… 00:47:22…
Forty-seven minutes until midnight. Forty-seven minutes until he could test his theory about daily resets.
'This is either going to be the best night of my life or the moment I discover I'm having a complete psychological breakdown,' he thought, watching the numbers tick down with hypnotic regularity.
Lucky finished his grooming session and padded over to curl up against Charley's leg, purring like a tiny motor running on contentment and premium cat food.
"You know what, Lucky?" Charley said, scratching behind the cat's ears. "If I'm going crazy, at least I'm doing it with style."
At exactly 11:59 PM, Charley put on his jacket and headed for the door. Lucky immediately appeared at his feet, looking expectant.
"Oh no," Charley said. "You're staying here where it's warm and dry."
Lucky tilted his head and gave him a look that clearly communicated: 'Are you seriously going to leave me here after I helped you find that card?'
"Fine," Charley sighed. "But if we get mugged, you're on your own."
The streets were empty except for the occasional taxi splashing through puddles and the distant sound of sirens that formed the city's nighttime lullaby. The ATM glowed like a beacon of possibility in the darkness.
Charley approached it with the reverence of someone approaching an oracle.
00:00:47… 00:00:46…
'Come on,' he thought, watching the timer. 'Reset, you beautiful piece of plastic magic.'
At exactly midnight, the timer disappeared.
Charley held his breath and slid the card into the machine.
PLEASE ENTER YOUR PIN.
'0000,' he typed, his fingers trembling slightly.
PLEASE SELECT TRANSACTION TYPE.
'It's working!' he realized, his heart beginning to race. 'It actually reset!'
He selected "Withdrawal" and stared at the amount screen. This was the moment of truth. Time to find out just how much power this thing really had.
He'd done the math during his vigil on the couch. Rent was $800. He needed to eat for the rest of the month. Maybe buy some decent clothes so he could stop looking like a refugee from a costume party.
'$1,000,' he decided. 'Enough to solve immediate problems without being completely insane.'
He typed in the amount and held his breath.
PROCESSING…
The machine whirred, clicked, and began dispensing cash with the efficiency of a money printer having the best day of its life.
Ten crisp hundred-dollar bills slid out of the slot like green paper salvation.
Charley stared at them for a long moment, then carefully picked them up and counted them twice. Real money. Legal tender. More cash than he'd held in his hands since before the scandal!
Lucky meowed from inside his jacket, as if to say, 'Well, are you going to stand there gawking all night?'
"You're right," Charley whispered. "Time to pay the rent."
-----
The walk back to his apartment building felt like a victory lap. Every step was lighter, every breath easier. For the first time in eight months, he wasn't dreading tomorrow morning.
Mr. Kozlov lived in the basement apartment, and his lights were still on despite the late hour. The man was probably up drinking vodka and plotting new ways to make his tenants miserable.
Charley knocked on the door with more confidence than he'd felt in years.
Heavy footsteps approached, followed by the sound of multiple locks being undone.
The door opened to reveal Viktor Kozlov in all his intimidating glory—six feet of muscle, scars, and perpetual irritation, wearing a tank top that had seen better decades.
"Dunst?" Kozlov squinted at him suspiciously. "Is middle of night. What you want?"
"I wanted to pay my rent, Mr. Kozlov."
Kozlov's expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. "Rent not due until morning."
"I know. But I have the money now, so I figured why wait?"
"You have money?" Kozlov laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Yesterday you beg for extension. Today you have money?"
Charley pulled out the cash, counting out eight hundred-dollar bills with theatrical precision. "Eight hundred dollars. This month's rent."
Kozlov's laughter died abruptly. He stared at the money like it might sprout legs and run away.
"Where you get this money?"
"Freelance work. Web design consultation."
"Web design?" Kozlov pronounced it like Charley had claimed to be a professional unicorn trainer. "You design webs?"
"Websites. For businesses. It's actually quite lucrative when you know what you're doing."
Kozlov continued staring at the cash. "This real money?"
"Feel free to check." Charley held out a bill. "It's got all the little security features and everything."
Kozlov examined the hundred-dollar bill with the intensity of a jeweler appraising a diamond. He held it up to the light, felt the texture, even sniffed it.
"Smells like money," he admitted grudgingly.
"That's because it is money."
"You sure this not stolen? Not drug money? FBI not going to knock down my door?"
"Mr. Kozlov, does this look like the face of a criminal mastermind?" Charley gestured to himself—still wearing parts of his bunny costume, hair sticking up at odd angles, with a cat poking its head out of his jacket.
Kozlov considered this. "No. You look like sad circus performer."
"Exactly. I'm way too pathetic to be running a criminal enterprise."
"This true." Kozlov nodded thoughtfully. "Real criminals dress better."
"So we have a deal?"
Kozlov snatched the money with surprising speed, counting it twice before shoving it into his pocket. "Rent paid. You have receipt somewhere?"
"Just remember I paid early. That should count for something."
"Yes, yes. You good tenant now. Not like before when you cry about money and smell like defeat."
"Thanks for that vivid description of my previous life, Mr. Kozlov."
"Is honest assessment. You want lies, pay extra."
Walking back upstairs, Charley felt like he was floating. Eight hundred dollars down, two hundred to go.
Life was going great!
-----
Back in his apartment, Lucky immediately claimed the warmest spot on the couch while Charley checked his phone out of habit.
A notification from Instagram made his stomach clench.
Clara had tagged him in a photo.
'Why would she tag me in anything?' he wondered, opening the app with the same enthusiasm he'd reserve for opening a tax audit.
The photo showed Clara on a beach somewhere tropical, wearing a bikini that probably cost more than Charley's monthly rent.
Next to her, Marcus Bravestone flexed his artificially enhanced abs for the camera, his smile as fake as his tan.
The caption read: "Living our best life in Cabo! Some people are just born for paradise while others are born for… other things. #viral #blessed #vacation #living #upgrade"
She'd tagged three people: Marcus, her sister, and Charley.
'Other things,' Charley read again. 'Real subtle, Clara.'
The comments were already rolling in:
"You two are perfect together!"
"Goals AF!"
"Some people really do level up!"
Charley waited for the familiar surge of anger, jealousy, and self-pity that usually accompanied any reminder of Clara's new life.
Instead, he felt… nothing.
Not anger. Not jealousy. Not even sadness.
Just a vague sense of observation, like he was looking at the life of someone he'd never met.
'Huh,' he thought, genuinely surprised by his own reaction. 'That's new.'
He studied the photo more carefully. Clara's smile looked forced around the edges. Marcus's pose was trying too hard. The whole thing had the desperate quality of people who were performing happiness rather than living it.
'Maybe Cabo isn't as perfect as it looks,' he mused.
But more importantly, he realized that he didn't care if it was perfect or not. Clara's happiness or unhappiness wasn't his problem anymore. Her choices weren't his responsibility.
For the first time since she'd left him, Charley felt truly free of her.
'I guess rock bottom has its advantages,' he thought. 'You learn who you are when everything else gets stripped away.'
Lucky jumped onto his lap, purring, and Charley absently scratched the cat's head while his mind shifted into planning mode.
Tomorrow, he'd withdraw another thousand. But this time, he'd be smarter about it. He needed to think strategically about how to build a legitimate-looking life that could support increasing wealth.
'First step: move out of this dump,' he decided, looking around his tiny apartment with new eyes. 'Can't build a new life from a place that reminds me of the old one.'
He opened his laptop and started browsing apartment listings, filtering by neighborhoods he'd never dreamed of affording before.
'Two-bedroom places in Riverside District. One-bedroom lofts downtown. Hell, maybe even a place with a dishwasher that actually works.'
As he scrolled through possibilities, Lucky stretched and settled more comfortably in his lap, apparently approving of this new direction in their shared fortunes.
"What do you think, Lucky?" Charley asked, showing the cat a photo of a modern apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows. "Think we could make this work?"
Lucky purred and closed his eyes, which Charley chose to interpret as enthusiastic approval.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, and the first hints of dawn were beginning to creep across the sky.
Charley closed the laptop and leaned back against the couch, feeling something he hadn't experienced in almost a year: genuine excitement about the future.
'This is my second chance,' he thought, looking down at the black card resting on his coffee table. 'And this time, I'm not going to waste it.'