The world had settled.
The elevator hummed softly as we returned from the stars, the Binding Clause having restored balance to landlord and tenant alike. Whiskers, perched beside me, looked unusually serene—pensive, even.
"You alright?" I asked.
He gave a slow blink. "I just saved the rentingverse with a human. That's going to get me kicked out of at least three feline clubs."
Back in our unit, everything had returned to normal-ish. The fridge buzzed comfortingly. The scratching post had been upgraded to chrome. And the rent notice now read, in gold embossing: Due when convenient. Preferably with snacks.
We held a rooftop ceremony that evening. Whiskers addressed a crowd of tenants—some furry, some feathered, some glowing faintly in the moonlight.
"From this moment forward," he declared, "our building shall operate as a co-op of interspecies harmony. Rent shall be fair. Nap times shall be respected. And no vacuum shall ever threaten our peace again!"
Cheers erupted. Even Clawdette the Siamese shed a tear behind her beret.
As the stars above aligned into a familiar pawprint one last time, Whiskers turned to me. "You know," he said, "you make a terrible tenant…"
I frowned.
"…but a pretty decent friend."
We bumped fists and paw.
And just like that, a new chapter didn't begin.
Because this one had found its perfect ending.
THE END