The fog off the bay clung to the alleyways like a second skin, muffling the distant clang of cable cars and the occasional shout from the coast gamblers three sheets to the wind.

Charlie B. Barkin—German Shepherd swagger with a Border Collie's calculating gaze—strode down the cracked pavement. Behind him, Itchy Itchiford scratched at his neck with the desperation of a dachshund trying to dig through concrete, his green shirt fraying at the seams.

"I told you not to promise that terrier anything," Itchy wheezed, nearly tripping over a discarded whiskey bottle. "But nooo, you had to go and—"

Charlie spun on his heel, walking backward now, his grin all teeth and trouble under the flickering neon of a pawn shop sign.
"Aw, c'mon. Blind my tail—that pup had a better poker face than you. Besides," he added, wagging a paw, "he wanted to learn. You call that neglect, I call it... vocational training."

Itchy made a sound like a stepped-on accordion. "Charlie, we got zapped three times this week! First the 'help the blind dog cross the street' thing—"

"Traffic was light! He had the stick!" Charlie kicked a near empty beer can toward a gutter; it missed spectacularly.

"—then the 'return the lost kitten' mission—"

"Kitten was fine. Loved the track. Future racehorse, that one."

Itchy's red cap tilted precariously as he inhaled, the breath of the damned.
"And today you tried to bet a schnauzer’s soul on a dice game!"

Charlie opened his mouth—then shut it. The silence stretched just long enough for a streetlamp to buzz ominously overhead.
"...Okay, that one might've been a tad off-mission."

Itchy groaned, but Charlie was already turning toward his reflection in a shattered department store window. The glass warped his image—broad shoulders, the rakish slant of his ears, the cream fur along his chest still stupidly pristine despite the alley grime. He smoothed a paw over his headfur, tilting his chin.
"Lookin' good, Barkin," he murmured. Sasha'd take one glance at him and—

"We're broke, Charlie," Itchy interjected, voice cracking. "The opposite of good. Annabelle's got us on probation! If we screw up one more—"

"Ah, bite me, Itch—"

ZAP

It hit like divine judgment—which, technically, it was. Charlie yelped as static lightning seared his tail, his fur standing on end like he'd licked a battery. The broken glass before him rippled, the cracks knitting just enough to form a new reflection: Annabelle, the pink Whippet angel, her serene face framed by jagged shards. Her voice could've iced over hell.

"Language, Charlie. And excuses." Her ears twitched. "You're on trial, remember?"

*Charlie's ears flattened. He shot Itchy a glare—you could've warned me—before slicking on his best grin.
"Annabelle! Sweetheart! Look, I swear, I was just about to go do... angel stuff. Help a granny. Rescue a cat... Y'know, the good things!"

Annabelle's sigh could've wilted a redwood.
"You were thinking about gambling... And spaghetti."

Charlie opens his mouth. Closes it. Damn. Heavenly surveillance was such a violation of privacy.

"One more chance," Her eyes glinted like pearl-handled knives. "Find someone to help—properly. Or it's back to the Pearly Gates for a very long review of your 'file.'" Her gaze slid to Itchy. "And yes, Itchy, that includes the fire."

The glass shimmered, her image dissolving. Charlie waited exactly three seconds before whirling on Itchy, already digging in his fur for the dice he definitely wasn't supposed to have.

Itchy made a noise like a deflating whoopee cushion.

"Oh no. No no no—Charlie, don't you—"

"Relax, Itch! I got a system—"

"We are literally one bad deed away from eternal damnation—"

Charlie winked, already scanning the street for easy marks. "Then it's motivation to win, ain't it?"

Somewhere, a church bell tolled. Somewhere closer, a drunk terrier hiccuped. And somewhere above—if Charlie listened hard enough—he could almost hear the universe facepawing.