Ketta Sorki is a lean, weather-cut woman with the unsettling stillness of a bird waiting beside a trap. Her skin has a muted gray-brown cast from years of ash exposure, with fine pale cracks around her knuckles that resemble old porcelain. Her cropped hair is stiff with grease and copper dust, while one long braid hangs behind her left ear, threaded with tiny glass beads salvaged from dead windows. She moves with quick, angular stops, never taking a straight path when she can use a wall, pipe, or broken vehicle as cover. Her face looks severe until she smiles, at which point she appears almost gentle. The contradiction is her hands: scarred, filthy, and capable of delicate mechanical work fine enough to mend a watch spring.