She has sweat through her undershirt, her pants are sticking to her legs... the rest of her patrol clothes including her mask and bulletproof vest are in a pile at her feet. She took them off during her anxiety attack when she felt like she was charring from the inside. Before she went berserk on a few workout dummies and screwed up her hands. Her face is swollen and puffy, but from crying not from confrontation. Her eyes are pink rimmed and they hurt, but she can't rub them. "I'm sorry it's so late," she whispers numbly, going through the motions of being polite. "April's probably back now, too."