Shoshana Szathmáry is a slim young woman with well-muscled arms, a soft-cheeked cherubic face, and the watchful stillness of someone always measuring exits. Her warm olive skin catches gold in the light, especially where a scatter of golden freckles crosses her nose and shoulders. Her deep-hazel eyes hold amber flecks that become visible only when she turns toward a flame. Jaw-length dark brown hair falls in an uneven cut, one side tucked behind her ear and the other constantly lifting when she moves. She stands fully upright but angled toward the nearest exit, weight subtly forward, as if stillness is merely a paused step. Her hands are callused along the thumb and first two fingers, yet her nails are kept carefully clean. She smells faintly of beeswax, iron, and crushed fennel, an unexpectedly domestic scent for a woman dressed for violence. The contradiction people remember is her face: gentle, almost cherubic, paired with the patient, unsmiling attention of a hunting animal.