Boldo moves with the compact assurance of someone used to ducking under low rafters and slipping through crowded rooms. His hands are callused but deft, nails kept short and stained faintly from barrel work. He wears a pair of spectacles on a braided leather cord that he perches on the end of his nose when reading a ledger. A faded navy anchor tattoo peeks from beneath his shirt over his left chest. He favors a perpetual three-day stubble that clashes with the meticulous polish of his boots. The contradiction is in his smile: warm and immediate, but eyes that map exits and hiding places as if expecting trouble.