Tang Momo crossed her arms and leveled a glare at Lin Ze. "You’re joking, right? Please tell me there’s no actual undead cat plotting a footwear heist."

Lin Ze shrugged, his grin as casual as a gambler with a winning hand. “Look, I wouldn’t rule it out. This place has more surprises than a magician's coat pocket. Speaking of which…” He bent down and picked up a half-chewed boot from the corner, its leather edges frayed and suspiciously sticky. “Found this behind the front desk yesterday. Coincidence? I think not.”

Tang Momo groaned, her patience thinner than rice paper in the rain. “Great. So not only do I have to dodge brain-craving zombies, but now I’ve got to protect my shoes from undead felines with gourmet tastes?”

Lin Ze gave her a thoughtful look. “Hey, don’t underestimate zombie cats. They’ve got nine lives, but only half the self-control.”

Just as Tang Momo was about to launch into a tirade about the absurdity of their situation, the sound of distant tinkling echoed through the corridor. It was light, almost musical—like wind chimes being juggled by a drunk ghost.

“Uh... what’s that?” she whispered, her voice dropping to the kind of hush reserved for haunted libraries and awkward dinner parties.

Lin Ze tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “That, my dear Momo, sounds like... room service.”

Before she could question him further, a translucent figure floated into view, clutching a silver platter covered by a domed lid. The ghostly waiter had the distinct air of someone who took their job far too seriously, despite their corporeal challenges. Its misty form wobbled slightly as it hovered closer.

“Ah, right on time!” Lin Ze clapped his hands together. “Momo, meet Bernard. Best spectral maître d' this side of the afterlife.”

Bernard gave a polite, though slightly wobbly, bow. “The special of the evening,” it announced in a voice that was both eerie and overly refined, “is a... slightly reanimated soufflé with a side of existential dread.”

Tang Momo recoiled. “Why does it smell like... burnt hair and disappointment?”

Bernard sighed dramatically, the kind of sigh only an ethereal being could truly master. “Madam, I assure you, it’s authentic. The chef insists it adds ‘character.’”

Lin Ze nodded appreciatively. “Sounds about right. That guy’s been dead for 200 years, but his culinary instincts are still ahead of their time. What else have you got there, Bernard?”

The ghost lifted the lid with a flourish, revealing a plate of what looked suspiciously like a charred sneaker, garnished with wilted parsley.

Tang Momo’s jaw dropped. “No. No way. That’s MY SHOE! You cannot be serious right now!”

Lin Ze leaned in, sniffing the air. “Huh. I was wrong. Zombie cats are on the menu tonight. Talk about cutting-edge dining trends.”

Bernard cleared his throat—or whatever ghosts cleared—looking slightly offended. “This is not just any shoe, sir. It’s artisanal. Aged for optimal flavor.”

Tang Momo yanked the plate out of Bernard’s hands, holding her now-limp sneaker aloft like a battle trophy. “I am NOT paying for this. I didn’t even check it into the coat room!”

Lin Ze chuckled, unfazed. “Relax, Momo. It’s complimentary. Think of it as... a sample of the Ghost Hotel’s unique charm.”

Bernard floated closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Actually, sir, there is a nominal fee. The chef requests your... eternal gratitude.”

Lin Ze gave the ghost a thumbs-up. “Tell him to put it on my tab.”

Before Bernard could reply, the sound of tiny claws scratching against wood echoed down the hall. Tang Momo froze, her face pale. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

A moment later, a skeletal cat trotted into view, its bony tail swishing like it owned the place. In its mouth, it carried what looked like the remains of another shoe, this one chewed to a point of no return. The cat stopped, dropped the shoe at Tang Momo’s feet, and let out a triumphant meow—a sound that was less “adorable kitty” and more “doom incarnate.”

Lin Ze crouched down, giving the undead feline a slow clap. “Well, Momo, I think you’ve got a new fan. Meet Mittens. She’s got a thing for designer footwear.”

Tang Momo glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. “I hate this place.”

Mittens meowed again, her hollow eye sockets gleaming with unholy glee. Then, as if to drive the point home, she pounced on Tang Momo’s other shoe, her claws clicking loudly against the tile floor.

Lin Ze stood, arms akimbo, clearly enjoying the chaos. “See? Never a dull moment. And hey, at least we’re consistent.”

Tang Momo groaned, grabbing her ruined sneaker and shoving it into Lin Ze’s chest. “You’re fixing this. I don’t care how, but if I have to deal with one more undead anything, I’m walking out of here barefoot.”

Lin Ze raised a hand solemnly. “Scout’s honor. But if Mittens challenges you to a shoe-staring contest, I’d recommend forfeiting. She’s undefeated.”