[It isn’t that she’s frightened. Not at all, really. But she has a thing about being touched, and about guys who tower over her. (That is to say, almost everyone.) His hand pins her to the wall, and for a second, she can’t breathe. Her mind takes her back to the days with Deucalion, when she dealt with this all too much, and had to stand up for herself, lest she appeared weak. For a moment, she’s afraid. Then, she remembers that this guy — a gun holstered on his hip without any sort of subtlety; hunter? or idiot? — is human. Regardless of what he thinks he can do, she’s not his prey. Between him and her, she will be the bigger threat every time.
She takes his wrist in her hand, her grip tightening until she feels the bones break beneath the skin. Ripped from his evil monologue of whatever he was talking about, he pulls his hand away with a cry of pain. He staggers to the side, his shoulder hitting the wall, and tears spring to his eyes as he cradles his ruined wrist. She breaks his other hand, too, if only to prevent him from shooting her in the back as she leaves, and she walks away from him. She doesn’t want to kill him; getting rid of the body would be too much work, and it’s not even noon yet. She’s content to just leave him where he is. Only a handful of steps away, she stops cold when she meets a pair of familiar eyes. She’s only quiet for a moment.] Whatever you’re going to say — don’t.
