Her chest heaves like she's run a marathon, but the suit beneath the plating is unblemished and intact where once upon a time it would've been split and slick with red. The ache is still there, more phantom pain now than even straightforward illusion born of this place's magic. Doesn't matter how long she's lived since that day, she'll always remember how it hurt.

She yanks off her own gauntlets and pauldrons without fanfare—sharp, serviceable yanks that throw them aside no less noisily.

Then she pushes, almost pitifully, at Carolina to clear her own space, to give herself room to breathe, to rein it in, stop fucking crying goddammit it wasn't real and you are better than this—

"Fuck this—" comes out aimlessly, scattershot bitterness. Her voice is raw like she's only now remembering how it works. "F-Fuck all of this—"