The woman behind the desk startles, called to action by the abrupt appearance of someone she hadn't seen coming. The excuses come quick, and so too does the offer of paperwork, assistance, does he need a pen?

Shepard turns to watch, admiring. Oh, he's handsome in any form, but there's something visceral, almost novel, about seeing him like this. He doesn't bother to look human, most of the time... It's captivating. Distracting... Which is why she doesn't notice the security guard moving until his shortsword is all the way through her back and out her chest. He screams, at first with the furious, impulsive rage of the moment, and then in pain as the blade rapidly heats by contact with a god's internals, and cooks the skin off his hand by consequence.

"Oh," Shepard looks down at it, startled more than pained; the tip of the blade protrudes a full handspan beyond her body, glowing cherry-red and getting hotter, an upwell of golden magma where it meets her skin. Logically, she knows there's nothing terribly dangerous about this; she is fire, inside and out, and there's nothing a mortal blade can do to her. It doesn't even hurt, really, "...Shit."

The less logical part remembers when lungs and heart occupied that space, and turns her voice harsh and pained. For a minute she can't do anything but reach up to grasp it, the steel turning soft, indenting slowly under her fingers. The shrill shriek of the secretary and the sound of doors opening all along the hallway let her know that whatever else is happening, she's now very visible, sword and all.

She turns, offended, to look at the man. He's still clutching his hand by the wrist, palm charred black and smoking, "...What the hell?"