Qasim is a compact, weather-hardened man whose presence seems built from patience rather than size. His movements are economical and strangely aquatic: he leans into turns as if following a current, pauses before stepping across uncertain ground, and never plants both feet on the same paving stone when a flood line is nearby. His face is broad at the jaw and narrow at the temples, marked by a pale scar that runs from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. His hands are heavily callused, with cracked nails permanently darkened by iron silt. He smells faintly of cedar soap, wet stone, and bitter orange peel. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate smile, bright and almost courtly, which appears most often while he is delivering devastating accusations to corrupt officials.