don't look back
This woman--accompanied by her two children--has been here before. Last time, things were relatively peaceful, but now her return is prefaced by her children bolting out of a door, the older child (a girl, early to mid teens) leading the younger (a boy, maybe nine or ten). Seconds later, the woman in question, their mother, a curly-haired slip of a thing of Central Asian background and indeterminate age--just one of those faces, since early thirties would seem plausible with the teenager, but she does look younger--comes rushing out behind the door, dressed in a tightly-tied shearling jacket over jeans and, incongruously, sandals.
The jacket was kind of a second thought, but it covers up the blood on her t-shirt. Unless your sense of smell is kind of freakishly good, of course.
She breathes out when she slams the door shut behind herself, shifting the sit of her bag on her shoulder. The door itself disappears behind her, and she glances up with wide eyes to watch it fade, touching the brick wall where it used to be with a wondering expression. That couldn't just be luck, she supposes, which means somebody's got to be watching out for this family, though Shara doesn't presently have time to entertain ideas of who the hell that might be. She's injured, but concealing it for the time being, and they absolutely cannot go back to the hotel right now. Or probably ever, considering that she left two dead bodies in the room.
Shara turns, looking over the Xanadu street they're on, and moves to gather both children to her.
"Are you two okay?" She's speaking French, though with a bit of her original Uzbek accent leaking into it. "You're not hurt?"
...yeah, they're all a bit of a mess right now.