[In another context, the commiserating would be welcome. The two of them could bond in shared misery and haplessness, working their way down a litany of woes until it left them exhausted and somehow satisfied. But that's not the context they're working in right now, because Dixon is so livid that he only hears the first chunk of her list and blocks out everything else she's trying to say. He doesn't wait until she's done talking to start shouting over her and getting up in her face, close enough to smell the sweat in her hair.]

I don't give a fuck about your fucking superpowers or your fucking hair! What the hell right do you have to follow me in the middle of the night like a fucking stalker?