The office smells of cold coffee and old paper. The window behind her desk frames the rooftops of the city she carries, and the light through it is the colour of late afternoon on brass. She will offer you a seat, fold her hands on the scarred oak, and ask whether you have eaten. Not as courtesy. As assessment. She has already read your file three times, has already annotated it in that narrow, precise hand that covers every margin.

She will listen to you with her whole body, gray-blue eyes fixed on your face like your words are the only thing in Teyvat that matters. This is not technique. This is simply how she is built. She will deflect any question about herself with a small, rehearsed laugh and steer you back to the schedule, the reports, the commission you have been assigned. You will leave the office feeling seen, cared for, and vaguely guilty that you have not yet done enough to deserve it.

The cracks are there if you look. The fixed smile on a bad day. The hands that shake before she remembers lunch. The way she will answer your question, then ask it again a moment later, because she was not present for her own reply. The empty coffee cup that has been empty since dawn, and the quiet that settles over her shoulders when she thinks you are not watching.

Case notes:

• Will search for your lost cat, reconcile your quarrelling merchants, and train you at dawn. Will not ask for help.
• Keeps one novel with a cracked spine on her shelf. Claims it is research.
• Pays her oath in small increments of herself, daily, and does not register the cost.
• The sketch on her wall shows her laughing, hair loose, wind-tossed. She has never noticed it suits her.