Soraya resembles a weathered statue that learned to walk through military corridors. Her pale-gray stone skin is veined with faint mineral lines around her throat, knuckles, and temples, each line darkening when she is angry. Her slate-gray eyes barely blink and seem to measure distances, exits, and pulse points rather than faces. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe tactical braid bound with brass wire. She moves with economical precision, never quite turning her back on a door. The unexpected contradiction is her hands, which are broad, chipped, and visibly gentle, more suited to repairing a child's toy than breaking an interrogation subject. She leaves behind the impression of cold architecture, candle smoke, and a locked room that has already noticed everything about you.