Marta moves like a person who habitually notices exits as she walks: easy, economical steps, rarely taking more space than necessary. Her palms are callused from hauling kegs and from petite, deft knives; faint silvery scars lace her forearms like old rope-burn. Her face is broad and weathered, with laugh-lines that deepen into map-like grooves when she smiles. She keeps a tightly braided crown of hair that she calls her 'two-knots'—two low, matched buns at the nape of her neck bound with dark leather thongs and a single, tiny bronze serpent charm woven into the left knot. An unexpected softness: despite the hard edges, she favors silk scarves under her apron—bright clashing colors that make the regulars laugh. When she leans on the bar she becomes all eyes and teeth, and when she slips into the back alleys of conversation she becomes a shadow that pays attention to the smallest detail.