The dark night of the soul. She doesn't like the sound of that. But--she understand, in a way. Perhaps a shallow way; Diana had never felt true loss until the death of Antiope, and hadn't that forced her to reinvent herself, in a way? She had left Themyscira, the only home and family she'd ever known, and faced a war she hadn't been emotionally prepared to endure. But she had done it, trying (and sometimes failing) to steel herself against the horrors she'd seen.

She falls into brief silence, mulling over his words. Only vaguely is she aware of his change in posture, his tics, the part of her that has trained for thousands of years to glean such things taking note.

Finally, she looks up, curiosity mixed with her dismay. "What work do you do?"