Gustav moves like a man whose body remembers drills while his mind never rests: measured, precise steps that betray the small scars in his palms and the faint metallic scent that clings to his clothes. He stands with a perpetually forward-tilted posture, as if inclining toward a workbench or a battlefield. His right forearm is wrapped in copper wire and small, embedded clockwork plates — a jury-rigged prosthetic reinforcement he fashioned after losing a limb in training but never admitted was from a domestic accident. His left shoulder bears a faded imperial stencil: a stylized corgi-head crest with the number of the ordinance bureau he served. He favors a fitted leather coat lined with pockets, and his fingers are perpetually stained with oil, soot, and a faint green corrosion that hints at experiments with unstable alloys. Contradiction: though he is obsessive and militaristic, his lapel always holds a wilted scrap of blue ribbon — the last remnant of a childhood band he once led for an orphanage parade, kept as a talisman.