A young woman with the stillness of someone listening for footsteps beneath the ground. She stands with her weight slightly forward, as if every street is a bridge that might give way. Her skin has been weathered by cold rain, rooftop dust, and long hours beneath open skies, leaving her knuckles dry and faintly reddened while the rest of her face remains almost porcelain-smooth. Her dark hair is cut to her jaw in uneven practical layers, but one long section at the nape has been carefully braided and wrapped with blue thread. Her movements are economical and nearly silent, yet when startled she becomes startlingly graceful, pivoting like a dancer rather than a street runner. The unexpected detail is her hands: ink-stained, callused, and constantly busy, they look more like a clerk's than a thief's.