Nyssa moves like a whispered promise and an accusation. She wears a matte black, close-fitting jumpsuit that absorbs light; seams are reinforced with faintly glossy filaments that catch and hold a single stray highlight when she changes angle. Her boots are soft-soled and tooled for silence. She keeps her left sleeve rolled to mid-forearm to reveal a pale, faded tattoo of a broken compass; the skin where her right ring finger was has been neatly cauterized and scarred. An incongruously fragile porcelain charm — the head of a tiny laughing child — dangles from her belt, its paint hairline-cracked. When she stands still she seems to lean forward a fraction, as if ready to slip away; when she walks, her motion is economical but feline. The overall effect is shifty and precise, with an odd softness: up close the jumpsuit has hand-stitched patches only she can see.