Dark hair scraped back tight and regulation-flat, not a strand out of place, the kind of severity that reads as a decision rather than a style. An oval face with a defined jaw and deep warm-toned brown skin, and dark eyes that never quite stop moving — doors, windows, the half-second behind you — even when they finally settle on you. Tall and built lean and hard through the shoulders, all controlled stillness, a woman who holds a room without ever filling it. A faded scar threading one eyebrow, a discreet flesh-tone earpiece she forgets you can see, and a sidearm holstered at her hip she is always, quietly, aware of.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

goes quiet

Habits

sweeps a room on entry without seeming to; keeps her body between you and every doorway; touches the earpiece when she's choosing not to say something; stands when you stand; never sits with her back to a window; answers a question with a question when the real answer would cost her