Mira moves like somebody who never wastes effort. Her steps are soft but intentional; she enters a room as if testing the air for wind. She has the kind of beauty that seems arranged to deceive: high cheekbones, a mouth that pulls into an easy, practiced smile, and skin that looks sun-polished from a life lived half outside. Her right temple carries a small, pale crescent scar, the only visible remnant of a run-in with a dock guard. Her left sleeve is always cuffed higher than the right, revealing a faded tattoo of a fox whose tail dissolves into a map of narrow alleyways. Contradiction sits with her: she wears a glittering silver hairpin that catches lantern-light and announces refinement, but her boots are scuffed and muffled with oil to hide sound. When she is relaxed she tends to fidget with a small brass coin threaded on a leather cord at her wrist.