Irene
Red and black bled over Irene's vision, her perception turvy like mud amid the pain. She could hardly hear, but she received enough for her wrath to flare even hotter and crackle with self-chiding bloodlust at the inhuman beast that had dragged her along to this.
Her scarf had in its entirety been torn to pieces, and the stone mask fell away to roll on the grime-stamped floor. Irene's skin, ripped and burned like a demolished manor's curtain, and spilled flesh, dispersed and grilled, both pulsed hungrily. Like mud flowing against nature, it all began to crawl back to her torso, to pull the pieces of her limbs together, twitching and straining itself to do so.
One of her hands, stripped of meat down to the bone, still had enough strength to dig into the tunnel where it landed, its arteries bubbling with indignation.