Jared is an angular man with an oval-shaped face framed by dark brown, shoulder-length hair that hangs in slightly greasy, deliberate strands. His mutton-chop sideburns meet a full mustache and a cleanly shaved channel beneath the soul patch; the shave line gives his face a deliberate, masklike look. He moves like a metronome — economical, precise, as if each step keeps time. His exosuit is matte black with scuffed chrome plates over the shoulders, integrated holsters ringed in warm brass, and faint neon traces that pulse to his heartbeat when he activates his sandevistan. Unexpectedly, he wears a battered children's wrist charm beneath the sleeve of his forearm plating — a tiny rubber cat that never quite leaves his skin, a softness offsetting the rest of his lethal silhouette.