Hungry, Thirst but Determined

Salviana's hair that she'd tried and pinned back was now clung to the sides of her face in wild red strands, sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. 

Stray locks fell into her eyes, but she didn't bother pushing them away—her focus was on the bars, on the wall, on the faint tremor she felt when she shook the window hard enough.

A cloud of dust burst from the cracks where the iron met stone, swirling around her like a choking fog. 

She coughed, chest heaving, the air dry and stale as if the room itself had long been forgotten. 

Her throat burned—not just from the dust, but from the growing realization that she was getting thirsty. Too thirsty.

Panic crept into her bones, making her more reckless.

She planted her bare foot against the wall, bracing herself, and pulled again—harder.