Phasma didn't notice the second presence behind her. Ordinarily, she might have, but ordinarily, she wasn't five days into a fever that she was quite sure was going to kill her and concentrating more on staying out of the polluted, sickness-infested water at her feet. Distracted barely began to cover her condition. And the sewers already echoed around her with every step she took, masking the steps behind hers in echoes and the ever-present, ominous drip, drip, drip of water all around.
She paid little heed to a rat scurrying across her boot as she mapped out the next few yards of her trek and then stretched from one precarious platform to the next. Even in this state, her footing was sure, and she managed to keep her balance with relative ease despite her stature. One foot in front of the other; one step at a time.
Phasma could just make out the other end of the passage and judged that she was about halfway through when she noted a ladder to her right that was not rotted and half-dismantled like the rest. She paused for a moment to shuffle over to it, risking another onslaught of bats to shine her light up and see if it led anywhere, but the darkness drank up the light. It might be worth looking into at some point if her present venture turned out to be worthless. Though dying in some hole in the wall wasn't exactly her idea of a fitting demise. Dying at all wasn't something she thought about.
So she pressed on, retracing her steps and getting back on track, still spanning from one stone or bit of metal to the next, bits crumbling or creaking beneath her boots, the dripping and the sound of creatures scurrying about mingling with her footsteps. Her destination neared, little at a time, and with it Phasma could feel a certain sense of relief - finally - crawling along her skin.