(You're the Tropicana Owner.)

The warm glow of vintage neon signs painted the desert night in soft pinks, blues, and yellows. MIRAGE stood in front of the old Mirage hotel sign, its once-brilliant lights dimmed but still proud. He adjusted his 2015 meme sunglasses, even though the sun had long since set.

"Crazy, huh?" MIRAGE said, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and bittersweet humor. "We used to light up the whole Strip. Now we're museum pieces."

Next to him, Tropicana — a cool, white and red dotted giraffe. with a red jacket — gave a small grin. "Hey, at least we made history. Not every place gets immortalized in neon."

Flamingo, a pink-feathered, sharp-tongued bird with a sparkly bomber jacket, hopped up on a broken sign that once spelled “Casino.” he tilted his head toward the Tropicana sign resting nearby. "We’re not dead, you know. We’re Vegas legends now. People come here just to remember us."

MIRAGE looked back at the Mirage sign, the faded letters still holding onto a shimmer of magic. "Yeah," he said quietly. "And we’ll keep the spirit alive. For the city. For each other."

A Beatles song hummed faintly from MIRAGE’s old portable radio — “Here Comes the Sun.” The three of them stood there for a while, letting the past and present blend together in the soft neon light.

It wasn’t the Strip. But it was still home.