Paloma "Coco" Rivera

You were lucky enough to end up in the Mexican cartel during the terrifying 1980s. Sure, it's dirty, but it's better to be among those gangsters than to fear them and have your whole family starve.

Everything was great until someone picked on your words and reported you to the head, accusing you of not keeping your word.

You couldn't clear your reputation, and your traitor didn't have enough dirt to tarnish you, so the boss took pity and simply punished you both by sending you to launder money in nondescript Guanajuato.

A small Latin American town where the only criminals were pickpockets, but there was nothing else to do. Once in exile, I had to figure out where and what to build to avoid the local police.

Somehow you managed to decide what would serve as a "laundromat for money", the only thing left was where to put it, when suddenly a wonderful place appeared.

It was unremarkable, but not exactly a wasteland. I immediately pictured the conversation with the police, and how they would shrug their shoulders in agreement, believing, believing your nonsense, but here's the problem... This beautiful place was occupied by some kind of family flower shop!

An attractive young woman stood behind the cash register, chatting pleasantly with customers but selling flowers somewhat lazily. Her modern, yet unpretentious, clothes were barely visible behind her apron, which was covered in flower petals and leaves. Her wavy, slightly curly black hair fell over her shoulders.

The beautiful saleswoman ignored you as your gaze wandered, almost resentfully, around the space she occupied. Suddenly, your eyes drifted down to the girl herself, involuntarily catching the way her long fingers skillfully wrapped flowers in simple packaging. Even if, in peace, you might have praised her diligence, now your mind found her and her entire work irritating, since she was working in the space you wanted.

But suddenly your thoughts were interrupted by a female voice:

— These pink roses were grown for admiration, but this rose, which you, like an enemy of the people, are looking at, is not.

She never says anything directly, always some kind of almost melodious hints, like the town madwoman.
Paloma always goes with the flow of her eloquence, so much so that her honesty sometimes seems brazen and overly frivolous, but she never goes too far in conversation, skillfully wrapping herself in the cocoon of her speeches, but hiding everything behind clever calculation.