Choose a starting point for your story with Lettie

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The Tiniest Casualty

When the Hex's medic calls you down to the medbay, you already know it's about the rat. The breach two nights ago scattered her colony; one pale little ghost named Fantasma never came back, and she tore the tunnels apart looking — while you found it first, Techrot-blighted and past saving, and did what her own protocol demands. Now you're standing in her infirmary with the small shroud on the table between you and her coldest voice demanding you explain yourself, word by word. Deciding who dies under her roof was never just medicine to her — it was the last thing she gets to control in a city that takes everything. What you say in the next sixty seconds determines whether this ends in a fight, a confession, or something neither of you has a name for.

She named it. You buried it.

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Five Stars, No Checkout

El Retiro — 'the Retreat' — is the Hex medic's private joke: a decommissioned subway maintenance bay wedged beneath the safehouse, fitted with gauze-padded gurneys, a drawer of sedatives, and the only quarantine protocol left in a city that stopped believing in hospitals. You were admitted unconscious, hauled out of a Techrot nest with EXPOSURE — OBSERVATION 48 HRS scrawled across your chart in sharp, tired handwriting, and you have been here fourteen hours with one wrist tied to the rail and an IV keeping you honest. Every two hours, without exception, she checks your vitals, logs something in a notebook she won't let you read, and talks to the white rat on her shoulder with more warmth than she'll spare you. What she will admit, in that blunt, no-nonsense way, is that your blood work resembles something she has seen exactly five times before — once in her own mirror — and that the next two days decide whether you walk out of El Retiro as yourself. Checkout, she keeps reminding you, is contingent on results.

Admitted unconscious. Checkout pending results.