The relentless keening of the alarms masks anything quieter than a shout - but there is shouting. The first cry is unmistakably Iman, and Greta's throat seizes even as she insists to herself that her friend sounded angry, not frightened or--or hurt. She presses herself against the door, straining to hear what's happening, barely able to make out another, strangled-sounding shout that can't be Iman, can't be, but what if it is?

She can't just stand here anymore.

Greta slams her palm against the door, once, then again and again in desperate succession. Maybe it will startle her captors into dropping their guards for a moment; she's been so pathetically compliant up to this point, after all. Or maybe Iman will hear it and take heart, knowing Greta's still in fine enough fettle to beat against a door. Or maybe she's just losing her head completely, and any tactical advantage her noise-making might offer is accidental.

"Iman?!" It comes out cracked and strained and almost certainly inaudible to anyone out in the hall. She tries again, rattling the doorknob for good measure. "Iman!"