"Name and favorite tuna brand," the voice repeated, sharper this time.
Whiskers stepped forward. "I am Whiskers Reginald Meowington III. Ocean Supreme, wild-caught. Obviously."
A beat. Then: "IDENTITY VERIFIED. ACCESS GRANTED."
The final door slid open to reveal… a vast underground chamber bathed in golden lamplight, with file cabinets taller than giraffes and pawprint-patterned carpets stretching in every direction. It looked like a cat-themed version of the Pentagon.
"This," Whiskers said, eyes glinting, "is the Vault of Nine Lives. Headquarters of the FFL… and where my grandfather's tailprint is still on file."
As we crept inside, I noticed rows of glowing orbs lining one wall, each labeled with a name and date.
"Life Orbs," Whiskers whispered. "Each landlord has nine. The longer you hoard them, the Out stepped a sleek, jet-black cat wearing a crimson bowtie and monocle.
more power you gain. But lose one… and you lose a life."
Just then, the lights dimmed.
A shadow slinked across the floor. A voice purred from the shadows.
"Well, well, Whiskers. I never thought you'd come back. Especially not with a tenant."
"Who's that?" I asked.
Whiskers' fur bristled. "That's Baron Mouser. Ex-FFL. Ex-friend. And possibly the one who's been draining lives."
Baron Mouser grinned. "You know the rules, old friend. Nine lives? Some of us prefer... ten."