[attr="class","illie i"]one precise strike to a pressure point is all it takes, apparently. for her to lose control, for her to allow anger to seep through her body like some lethal toxin. and it's painful, really, for him to be on the receiving end of it. is that worse than him being the catalyst, though?

she's solidifying what he wanted. proving the bloodline she carries like a burden, proving that despite all the trauma: she's still their daughter, their little experiment.

the recoil is instant, from the moment he speaks to the way he steps closer. her body reacts on its own like it's expecting some sort of punishment for anger. and where she wants to stop it, she can't prevent an avalanche once it's begun. "stop," she grits out. her hands rise like a barrier, like a makeshift wall between them that shouldn't be there but he's getting too close and she's teetering on the edge of lashing out. it's funny, really, how alike parents are to their child when anger is the sole deciding factor. "you're damn right you were out of line." half a snarl, half a baring of teeth that doesn't resemble her usual smile.

and like a wounded animal backed into a corner, she has two options: cower or fight. how she reacts, in the end, hinges on him and the lengths he'll go to fix the pushing, the breaking of pieces held together by scotch tape.