Akira is a narrow-shouldered young human with a deliberate, almost mathematical way of moving. She steps around puddles, loose stones, and other people's feet as if the world were a diagram only she can see. Her skin carries a warm copper tone, and her black hair is cut unevenly at the jaw, with one stubborn tuft that curls forward no matter how often she wets it down. She smells strongly of cedar smoke, damp wool, and bitter orange peel, a scent she insists comes from the refugee blankets and not from her. Her hands are ink-stained to the knuckles, while her fingernails are carefully clean. The contradictory impression is that she looks fragile and underfed, yet lifts heavy doors, packs, and frightened children with startling practical strength. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice the little brass abacus always hanging from her belt. Its wooden counters are polished smooth only along the lower row, where her thumb rubs them whenever she is afraid.