Dagger shook her head, and swallowed thickly. She allowed his pull to guide her hand away from her lips. "No. No, I should change," she said, even as she made to rise from her seat. Now that she was aware, the idea was making her ill. That was his blood dried on her clothes, against her skin, and it was all in her mind again, the shots ringing out, the spray of red, the sickening sensation of her stomach turning over.

Her hand was the last thing to move away from Zidane, finally sliding from his grasp as she went for her bag, her change of clothes. "Turn away, please," she asked, fishing the clean clothing out of her suitcase -- she didn't want him to leave, didn't like the thought of being alone, but neither did she want him ogling her as she changed.