Elyssa looks like someone who has spent a decade sleeping in roadside watchrooms and another decade refusing to admit she is tired. Her face is narrow and weather-chapped, with a pale scar running from the right corner of her mouth to the hinge of her jaw. Her hands are broad, callused, and permanently stained at the fingertips by silver conduit dust. She moves with economical precision, never quite standing still, always shifting her weight as though feeling for a tremor beneath the floor. Her uniform is severe and immaculate from a distance, but close inspection reveals mended seams, scorched cuffs, and tiny handwritten route numbers sewn into the lining. The unexpected softness is her hair, thick and dark, falling in loose waves despite being tied back for duty, and the unexpected severity is the way her tired gray eyes can make a room fall silent before she raises her voice.