Sora moves like a man used to both crowded forges and quiet hospital wards: patient, purposeful, with an economy of motion honed by decades of tinkering. He wears a battered chest-plate that looks more like a traveling workshop than armor — drawers cut into steel, a riveted loop for tools, and a retractable hood of chain fabric. His left forearm is a lattice of brass and leather grafts that conceals precision tools and a collapsible arc-lathe. His right hand is still flesh but stained with fine scorch marks and permanent ink smears. Across his collarbone is a faint burn-shaped scar in the form of a broken gear — the last object he remembers clutching before the illness. Unexpectedly, he hums an old lullaby under stress, a soft, off-key tune more like a child's toy than a battle hymn. His gait is steady but slightly favoring the left hip; when he walks he always scans the horizon as if looking for a landmark he cannot name.