Joan breaks his hold with the same casual strength; muscle memory from years of fighting bigger, older men doesn't fail her, and they tended to be in better health than Marcus, especially now. She holds the switchblade between them, not yet offensively (though the urge is there, itching at her mind, spiteful and hateful and-) but as a barrier.

"Isn't safe for me? Fuck you, Marcus; I thought you were too smart for this faith healing bullshit." The anger and disappointment is almost comforting in its familiarity, even if she's never quite shown this side of herself to Marcus before. "I can't believe you'd be into this fucking- drug dealing! Drug dealing, that would have been fine, fuck." It was what she was expecting. "This is torture. Is he an addict or is he gay? Do you even care?"

She wants a fight, she realizes; she wants to fight him. She can't right now. She has other shit to deal with. Joan turns her back on him again and goes back to sawing at the rope. Her metal continues to itch, but she pushes that aside, ignoring the discomfort with ease.