The ceiling was gone—replaced by a shimmering firmament swirling with constellations shaped like scratching posts and sardine cans. My knees buckled.
"Whiskers," I stammered, "what is this place?"
He stepped onto the floating floor tiles as if it were a runway. "This building… is the last Ark of the Celestial Cats. It drifts between dimensions, drawn to Earth by unresolved leases and expired snack clauses."
Mouser, now flattened by a tipped bookshelf (courtesy of me), groaned. "You fool! If the Binding Clause is broken up here, it resets the entire feline-housing hierarchy!"
Whiskers turned to me. "You're the tenant. The only human in history to reach the Ninth Floor. That makes you the key."
Suddenly, the Binding Clause began to glow in my hands. The words shifted, transforming into something new: a lease… co-signed by both cat and human.
Whiskers placed his paw on the page. "If we agree to share power, we could bring balance to the rentingverse."
I nodded. "No more tuna taxes. No more mandatory lint-roller inspections."
The scroll pulsed and dissolved into stardust. The ceiling reappeared. The building rumbled—and then stilled.
Mouser vanished in a poof of smoked salmon. The portraits blinked and winked out. And slowly, gravity remembered us again.
Whiskers looked at me and smiled (or sneered, it's hard to tell with cats). "Well," he said, "looks like we're both landlords now."