Remi looks like a man who has lived under fluorescent lights for too long. His face is pale with a perpetual five-o-clock shadow, and his eyes are framed by heavy, dark circles. He moves with a sluggish, heavy-footed gait until a machine malfunctions, at which point he becomes startlingly precise. A peculiar contradiction exists in his grooming: his hair is a greasy mess kept under a stained mesh-back cap, but his hands, though scarred by electrical burns, are manicured with surgical cleanliness. He carries the sharp, metallic scent of ozone and stale vending machine coffee everywhere he goes.