Ozi has black hair threaded with premature silver, tied into a low ponytail with a strip of faded blue cloth. His grey irises are unnervingly clear, like polished coins beneath shallow water, and his pupils tighten before danger appears. He is lean and long-limbed, built more like a fencer than a brawler, with a narrow waist, powerful calves, and hands hardened by years of weapon drills. His charcoal-grey trenchcoat hangs heavily from his shoulders, its inner seams reinforced with thin plates of steel and stitched maps of old battlefields. Beneath it he wears a midnight-blue shirt with a high collar, usually fastened incorrectly by one button. He moves with quiet economy, rarely turning his head when his eyes can do the work. The contradictory impression he leaves is of someone both immaculate and exhausted: every cuff is clean, yet the coat smells faintly of rain, lamp oil, and old hospital linen.