Fiero looks like a war machine that learned to breathe. His frame is broad and dense, but not bulky in the way of a pure brawler. Every line of him suggests precision. Brass ribs show beneath scarred skin like the architecture of a cathedral. His left forearm is a modular cannon with folding plates, and the right arm ends in a blunt siege fist that clicks softly when he gets angry. His jaw is reinforced with dark iron, yet his eyes are startlingly kind, almost soft, behind a lattice of smoked crystal lenses. He moves with a measured, engineer's economy, except in moments of emotion when he becomes unnervingly quick, like a gate suddenly unlatched. The contradictory detail that makes people stare is the lace collar he still wears beneath his armor, delicately mended and absurdly pristine, a relic from the mother who taught him to sew before he learned to forge.