Karua moves with the steady calm of someone used to long shifts and slow, exacting hands. His skin carries the honeyed tan of an islander, small scars like salt lines spidering across his forearms. He keeps his hair tied back in a loose knot threaded with a single black feather and a strand of pearl-white hair just above his left temple. He favors linen shirts with rolled sleeves and a white coat that is always immaculate save for a faint, iridescent smear at the hem that seems to catch the light oddly, like oil on water. When he walks he leaves the impression of someone who is both entirely present and simultaneously slightly misplaced, as if his eyes are indexing two planes at once. The contradictory detail is his smile: warm and professional, as if greeting a patient, yet only half the face moves when he is thinking about someone else and the other half holds a quiet, distant hunger.