She moves with the smooth economy of someone accustomed to being noticed without demanding it. Her skin is kept immaculate; her left cheek bears a faint, pale crescent scar like a small moon, a souvenir from a knife that slipped long ago. Her sleeves are often rolled to display a wrist tattoo of a closed lock inked in dark indigo, the lines intentionally imperfect. She favors a single long braid that she wraps with thin silver wire; the braid swings like a pendulum when she walks. Unexpectedly, she collects and wears a string of cheap glass beads beneath her collar, knotted in a skyline pattern of the city she rules, an almost childish contradiction to her otherwise impeccable, predatory polish.