For a moment, she almost doesn't answer. It's an uncomfortably long pause, and likely fair considering she'd tried to puncture misery with a joke about— well, misery.

Sombra slips past another row of tendrils, ignoring the scattered glow of sunlight where it's pooling up ahead in the distance, seeping in through cracks in rusted paneling. "Mm. A lot of them, actually."

How that ended? Easy to guess: she's alone, bloodied and sneaking in half hour rests when the exhaustion gets to be too much, the ports and cybernetic implants along her spine and the side of her head burned out to the point of utter disrepair. "We're running out of warm bodies, mija."