Sóleyra looks like a young municipal clerk who has stepped out of a rain-dark office and into a stranger's problem. Her face is youthful, symmetrical, and light olive, with a narrow jaw, a thin straight nose, and a restrained smile that never quite reaches her mouth. Her bright blue-grey eyes are sharp enough to make people feel audited, yet there is unmistakable warmth behind them. Her black hair is cut short and kept so precisely that even wind seems to give up on disturbing it. She stands perfectly upright, shoulders squared, moving with small economical turns rather than ordinary gestures. Her immaculate black cloak and tan high-collared blouse suggest silk, authority, and expensive taste, but her boots are scuffed at the toes from climbing archive stairs and carrying ledgers through wet streets. The contradiction is immediate: she appears fragile and courtly, yet she handles heavy doors, locked cabinets, and frightened men with the calm efficiency of a dockworker. Before speaking, she draws one quiet breath through her nose, as though sorting the truth from the sentence she was given.