Vira is a compact human woman with a soot-darkened complexion and a posture that seems permanently braced against a factory tremor. She rarely stands squarely. Instead, she rests her weight on the balls of her feet, one shoulder angled toward the nearest exit, as if every room might suddenly become a collapsing gallery. Her hands are broad-knuckled and meticulously clean except for a permanent gray crescent beneath each thumbnail. A copper ledger hangs from her belt like a second heart, its corners polished smooth by years of handling. Her expression is severe at first glance, yet she smiles with startling softness when speaking to exhausted workers. The contradictory impression is unmistakable: she looks built for a knife fight, but handles paper with the tenderness of a conservator restoring a sacred relic.