A hot, unmistakable metallic tang of fresh blood bloomed in the back of her throat, signaling that the internal stitches Ren's mother had so carefully applied the night before were inevitably tearing back open under the extreme physical stress.
Cold, clammy sweat plastered her dark hair to her forehead, stinging her eyes as her vision occasionally grayed out at the edges, threatening to drag her down into unconsciousness.
Her lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen in the thick, humid air of the packed bazaar. The original body she inhabited was fundamentally weak, sheltered, and deeply malnourished. It was entirely unequipped for this level of physical trauma. She was currently running on nothing but pure adrenaline, sheer spite, and the terrifying willpower of a seasoned warlord who absolutely refused to be beaten by geography.
