She could never be sure what the exact moment was that made her want to run away. It wasn't the hot blood splashing across her face. No, she'd experienced that disgusting side effect of interrogations more times than she could count. It also wasn't the screams for mercy from the accused strapped to the chair in front of her. She'd learned years earlier to tune those out. Unless they were offering up useful information, she didn't want to hear anything they said. It wasn't the acrid stench of the locked interrogation room on Level Eleven. Almost constant exposure to the horrific smells that nasty curses and human bodies in distress could emit made her almost immune. She was used to smelling them. They didn't bother her.