There's something incredibly satisfying about her knuckles connecting with someone else's face. Something about the feeling of bone on skin, the dull smack. It makes her wonder why Shadowhunters don't fight with fists more often. The impact travels up her arm, her own pain from the blow lessening as she follows the attack through instead of stopping short.

She's alarmingly pleased when the other woman fights back. Maybe because it backs up her theory that she's the reason Isabelle's here, or maybe because she has a lot of tense energy that needs to be worked out. Either way, she doesn't expect to be knocked to the ground quite so easily. She's supposed to be better and faster and stronger than mundanes. Pinned beneath this girl's knee, unable to dislodge the hold, she feels a lot weaker than normal. Not just lacking-a-strength-rune weak, but fundamentally weak, like all the way to the bone.

"Bullshit," Isabelle snarls, barely able to get the word out. But she does use all her strength to launch herself up, just enough to reach up and grab the other girl by the hair, yanking hard.