The helplessness of the situation is inescapable. Wrath knows what it's like to watch an op going bad in the worst way. To not be able to do anything about it. To lose comrades and friends. And there's nothing she can do. She can't leave--she already would have, if she could--and just curling up in a ball and closing her eyes and covering her ears really isn't going to cut it, either.

With flight impossible, the other solution easily at hand is fight. Which is fine with Wrath, because she's always been better at fight. Best case scenario, she'll get knocked out of this. Worst case scenario, it's still a good distraction for her... friend? coworker? fellow inmate? whatever... instead of just standing around and watching the death unspool.

Wrath's stance shifts subtly, from the sympathetic person she tries very hard to be to the machine that fights and loves nothing more than the feeling of a bruise and a mouthful of blood. It's easier to be that, anyway. It's what she's always been, as far as she can remember. She only took a break from it after her bones got pulped. "You want me gone? Make me."

And just in case it's not clear enough what kind of invitation that is, she curls her right hand into a first and goes in for her first punch.