"You don't exist." She murmurs the counter sign, words barely intelligible through her split, swollen lips. Something touches her hair then – fingers reaching through the bars, curling hard in the wild, dirty strands and exerting enough pressure to hold her there, sitting on the damp, moss-slick stones with her upper body slumped to the bars. She stays very still and does not fight – it must be to fool someone walking past nearby, she tells herself, that dangerous grip on her hair. And even if it is not, what exactly can she do about it? She is helpless, utterly and completely, and the man whose fingers twine in her hair is currently her only hope of getting a message out to the Order.