The wounds don't heal as readily, when the source of the injury is still there. Blood beads and flows where clawed digits dig into her throat and the snarling that ripples past her bared teeth is wet and strained, and yet somehow exhilarated. It's almost a laugh, except in all the ways it can't be, coming from a body not made for it.

Until suddenly it is. One moment, the wolf. The next, the small woman. The grip on her throat doesn't even have to shift—there's a dream logic, to how her form shifts; you never see it, you never feel it, it just is. And so there is Daisy, bleeding and grinning, almost manic.

There was a time where being caught would've aggravated her. This doesn't seem to be that time.

And so through bloodied teeth, all she says is: "A-Apparently."