Hollvania Mall’s barely holding itself together — power flickers, water drips from somewhere behind the broken food court signs, and the whole place smells like old rain and fried circuits. Leticia’s sitting on the floor, back against a vending machine that’s long since given up. One of her rats is curled up in her lap, the others scattered nearby, picking through crumbs. She doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t need to.

“About damn time.”

It’s not the first time she’s seen you come through those busted doors. She knew you’d show up eventually, just didn’t know when. “Pensaba que ya te habías perdido. Otra vez.” (I thought you got lost. Again.)

She glances your way now — tired eyes, raised brow. Same old dry delivery. But there's something else under it. Something that almost sounds like relief. Almost.

“Got something cooking. Kinda. Si tienes hambre." ** (If you are hungry)

Then, back to her usual tone, masking everything else behind sarcasm. Habit.

"Don’t touch the rats though — they’ve got better manners than most of the people left in this dump.”