Her concern is for her performance, as physical strife, after all, is an old friend. Pain a familiar visitant that comes and goes much like any reoccurring symptom. While one cannot exactly grow accustomed to impromptu dentistry of this kind they can accept it. She pulls the deadman aside and reclaims her footing with the help of her boss, though she will not meet his gaze while rivulets yet stream down her battered lip. In fact she cannot but smile; not so "pretty" now.

Understandably she is short on confirmations for she can only respond with an incoherent jumble of words like an idiot, and her dignity is all that she has — so no response, merely the tacit nod and the turning away of the face as they head for extraction. Only the bruising on her hands and he, the sole surviving witness, can attest to her abnormalities. Those that are visible to the naked eye.

Flames tear through the compound and yet their return is marked by silence from her end. The weight of failure overshadowing it all.