Your cat isn't broken. Nothing you've bought was built for how cats actually behave.
The spray deterrents trained you, not the cat. You spritz, they wait, they scratch the other armrest. Meanwhile every session carves real money out of a sofa that cost four figures.
The cardboard scratcher works — and redecorates your floor daily. Corrugated board shreds into confetti by design. So it lives in the corner, you vacuum a ring around it, and eventually it goes in the recycling half-used.
The plush bed became a $40 monument to rejection. Flat, open beds don't feel defensible to a cat. So they sleep in the delivery box it came in, and the bed collects hair, untouched.
The cat tree solved it — for the one room you hid it in. It works where it stands. But it's beige, carpeted, and enormous, so it stands in the spare room… and your cat scratches where you actually live: the living room couch.
It isn't that your cat is stubborn.
Nothing you own combines a scratch surface cats want, a bed shape cats choose, and a design you'd willingly put in the middle of your living room — so the couch keeps winning.