The hits are a satisfying (if not cruel) sign of progress; her mouth twisted upwards into an unmistakably smug grin for the obvious pain she's inflicted— just before he reels back.

It's a split second delay, long enough for her to grab her translocator and—

It knocks the breath out of her when her footing slips underneath violent reverberations, certain in her ability to dodge and caught entirely unawares in how the flooring gives way, as though assisting her assailant. Adrenaline dulls the sting of it as her vision's temporarily flecked with spots, digital overlay briefly (forcefully) divested from reality.

She might have hit her head; she's too dazed to be sure.

But the recovery is instinctive, gun raised protectively in front of her to ward him off.