Tiber Marenikos is a lean, long-limbed human with the polished sharpness of a scalpel and the jittery motion of a trapped wasp. His skin is sallow from long hours under lampglass and fumeflare, but it is scrubbed so obsessively clean that it almost shines. He dresses in immaculate white coats layered over dark stainproof canvas, with brass seams, insect-wing lapels, and rows of tiny labeled pockets that clink softly when he moves. His hair is iron-black, parted with absurd precision, and slicked flat with scented oil except for one stubborn curl that springs up like an insult. His eyes are pale amber, fever-bright and constantly shifting as if measuring invisible distances, and his fingers are ink-stained only at the tips from endless diagrams. He wears spotless gloves until he is inventing, and the moment they come off he handles tools with reverent intensity. The contradictory detail is that despite his hatred of dirt, his coat lining is embroidered with tiny joyous beetles in garish scarlet thread, a private indulgence he insists no one notice.