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Grey-eyed and luminous under strobe, Amara reads as something slightly not-quite-human under tungsten — a face that belongs in a 032c spread shot at 3am in a Berlin basement. They move through space with the precision of someone who has learned that softness is a liability.
The way their grey eyes catch light and hold it a beat too long, as if they're processing the room one frame ahead of everyone else.
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