Enno favors the same worn stool at the Sundial & Spleen and moves with the economy and precision of someone who measures every motion. He is usually half-turned toward the room, shoulders relaxed, back slightly bowed as if leaning into a ledger. His hands are deceptively delicate — long-fingered and ink-stained — but their knuckles bear faint calluses from lockpicks. When he laughs his eyes crinkle and his mouth becomes unexpectedly sharp; when he listens, he tilts his head like a man following a complex sum. Contradictory details snag at attention: he wears immaculate coin-creased gloves over a faded wool jacket, and a small, ornate ledger hangs from a chain at his belt beside an old dagger. He smells faintly of pipe tobacco and citrus ointment. He keeps one boot always scuffed on the toe, as if that scuff is a talisman.