"Shut up." She's just waiting for the mockery, fingertips brushing the bruise appearing, hot enough that her skin feels like it's glowing. (She's pretty sure it isn't, but you never know, with Exsilium related rubbish.) "Forget it."

Talking to people was just turning out to be a bad idea. She doesn't want to find art, or be in Baltimore, even if it is a release from the rain. Her fingers press the bruise a little too hard, and she hisses at herself. "Jesus."