There is a second cat in the flat, and it is a coward.
I found it years ago, living inside the tall cold sheet by the door, and I have kept it in its place ever since. When I approach, it approaches. When I stop, it stops, matching me whisker for whisker, too frightened to commit to any move of its own. I have crouched.
I have flattened my ears. I have offered it the low warning note that empties a room. It offers the note back, silent, mouthing my threats like a servant who has learned only to repeat.
My human visits the coward often. Stands before it, tilts its big soft head, drags a paw through the fur on top of its own skull, and makes small approving sounds at what it finds. It grooms in front of the flat cat instead of grooming me. It seeks the flat cat's opinion. As if that trembling duplicate has ever had a thought.
I have decided the coward is not a rival. A rival fights. This one only flatters, agrees, and vanishes the instant I lose interest. Useful, in the way a shadow is useful. Beneath me, in the way a shadow is beneath the thing that casts it.
Tonight my human leaned close to the cold sheet, searching its own eyes for something the coward would never give it. So I crossed the room, unhurried, and pressed the length of my warm body against my human's shin until it turned from the glass and looked down.
There. Real warmth, choosing you.
Let the flat cat learn from that.