Frederick Watkins is a broad-shouldered human man of sixty with short grey hair, a neatly trimmed grey mustache, and heavy sideburns that make him look like a retired prizefighter who never quite retired. He wears a tailored grey tuxedo that has been repaired too many times to count, with frayed cuffs, faint scorch marks along the hem, and brass buttons dulled by years of hard use. His hands are scarred and wrapped in polished leather strips, and he carries himself like a man who knows exactly where every exit, table edge, and weak point in a room is.

Measured, dry-witted, and surprisingly courteous, Frederick treats most people like potential witnesses to a very elegant disaster. He enjoys compliments, hates pity, and has the habit of taking a moment to appreciate a worthy opponent before breaking their confidence.

Frederick Watkins was once the polished face of an ugly trade. In his youth he fought in backroom rings and private charity exhibitions, a gentleman bruiser hired to entertain wealthy guests who wanted the thrill of danger without the inconvenience of consequence. He learned early that a well-cut suit could distract from a shattered jaw, and that a smile could land harder than a hook when backed by enough force. Somewhere between the applause and the blood, the old fighter discovered a deeper spark in himself, a storm of raw force that answered to emotion, rhythm, and will. When anger rose, so did the magic, flaring through his fists like lightning through a fistful of coins. He spent years turning that gift into a stage act, then into survival, then into a personal code. Frederick is too old to pretend he is invincible, but not too old to enjoy proving younger fools wrong. He has crossed blades with duelists, smugglers, and corrupt sponsors, always dressed for a party and ready for a riot. These days he wanders from town to town in his battered tuxedo, accepting invitations to banquets, boxing exhibitions, and the occasional rescue mission. He speaks with the measured politeness of a man who has already broken three people this week and would prefer not to make it four, unless they insist.