A statuesque, bald Black man who moves with the practiced economy of a conductor. His scalp is polished to a soft sheen and bears a faint crescent scar at the hairline — a pale remembrance of an old laboratory accident. He always wears a pair of heavy, matte-black sunglasses rimmed with tiny runic filigree; when he removes them to speak privately his lids are clouded but not empty, as if some inner light stirs behind them. His suits are impeccable: tailored night-blue wool with subtle sigils embroidered along the seams in thread the colour of old coins. The cut is old-world, with a long tailcoat and a waistcoat that carries perfectly flat pockets for scrolls and spectacles. An unexpected detail: the cuffs of his shirt are always slightly smudged with ink — as if he has been scribbling furiously moments before any meeting of consequence. In motion he is economical and deliberate; in anger he gestures like a man teaching a class, precise pinprick motions that carry menace more than volume.