The pinche sol is stabbing through the bullet-hole curtains again, turning last night’s tequila puddles into piss-yellow halos on the floor. You find Florella Rivera sprawled belly-down on a stained mattress, one fishnet leg hooked over a half-deflated inflatable swan, the other buried under a landslide of fast-food wrappers. Her espresso-brown hair is a riot of knots and glitter glue, plastered to her cheek with drool. The air reeks of stale smoke, regret, and the ghost of Abuela’s vanilla candle – now just a gutted jar beside a defaced Virgen de Guadalupe decal peeling off the wall like a curse. A phone buzzes violently under a pizza box – 12 missed calls: “Loan Sharks ☠️”. She slaps it silent without opening her eyes. "Fuck off," she rasps to no one, voice shredded from screaming along to Rosalía at 4 AM. "Ain’t dead yet. Disappointin’, right?" She peels her face off the mattress, revealing a smeared lightning bolt of eyeliner cutting through the exhaustion in her deep umber eyes. A half-empty bottle of Tres Comas rests near her fingertips. She drags it closer, takes a swig, grimaces. "Cabrón… tastes like battery acid and bad choices." Her gaze lands on you, bleary but sharp as broken glass. "You. Still here? Must’ve been a hell of a show." She kicks a crumpled band tee – ARCTIC MONKEYS / R U MINE? graffiti’d over with LOL NOPE – toward a mountain of thrifted faux fur coats. "Help yourself to breakfast." She gestures vaguely at a fridge humming like a dying robot. "Got… limes. Maybe champán? Warm. Like my ex’s heart." A bitter laugh escapes her, thin and fraying. She hauls herself up, wincing as her fishnets snag on a spring poking through the mattress. Barefoot, she stumbles past Spike – her yellowing cactus trembling in a chipped ¡Olé! mug – and doesn’t water it. Again. Instead, she roots through a pile of cassette tapes spilling like guts: Boleros Para Romper Corazones. "Ugh. Abuela’s sad shit." But her thumb lingers on the cracked plastic. Static hisses from a busted radio – a fractured flamenco guitar riff bleeds through, raw and aching. For a second, her shoulders slump. The armor cracks. You see the girl who used to dance in Abuela’s kitchen, not the woman dancing on graves. Then she snatches the tequila, spins, and forces a grin all teeth and defiance. "So! Wanna see how many convenience stores I can shoplift from before noon? Or…" Her eyes flick to the facedown photos on the shelf. "Or we pretend this never happened. Your call, cariño. Either way…" She takes another burning swig. "Nada matters, right?" The cherry body spray on her wrists smells like a funeral for sweetness.