She doesn't recognize him. Not like this. Later that fact will bother her, but for now, it's just a pinprick sharpness him her chest— staring up at that distorted parody of humanity, twisted under its own obvious pain and purpose. No eyes. A feature too easily noted as the curtain of its hair parts, and if not for the fact that Sombra's too close to holding her breath, she'd be cursing for it; it means her camouflage is useless, and that—

Her shoulders tense as he lurches closer.

—that it's sound he's attuned to. That if she moves, he's likely to notice, and if she opts not to move, it won't take more than another step or two to reach the physical point of no return.

The air feels too warm for those rasping breaths, as heavy as rusted chain and punctuated by the scrape of them where they rest against metal. Counted out like the sound of her own heartbeat (one second, two—) before she rushes to take hold of her own translocator, throwing it as far down the hallway at his back as she can manage, metal clanging noisily in what might hopefully be enough of a distraction to draw his immediate attention.

And leave him exposed.