Sora moves like a man built to steady a shaken world: deliberate, slightly bowed at the shoulders from a lifetime of carrying weights—both iron and regret. His left cheek is crisscrossed with pale, almost pearlescent scars that catch the light like healed lightning strikes; the skin there has a faint silver sheen that contrasts with an otherwise sallow complexion. He favors a cropped, uneven beard threaded with white, and his right forearm is encased in a patchwork gauntlet of brass plates and stitched leather that hums faintly when he concentrates. His ruined wings are visible only as rigid, stunted bone and darkened quills folded like a broken fan under his coat—an unexpected, melancholy counterpoint to the precise mechanical devices strapped across his chest. When he works, his movements become quick and surgical; when he rests, he toys absentmindedly with tiny gears between two fingers. Contradiction follows him: his hands are perpetually stained with machine oil, yet he keeps a pressed cloth and a delicate silver crucible for holding herbs and salves.