A lean man who moves like he is always half a second ahead of the room, with a nervous elegance that feels trained rather than natural. His skin is weathered bronze with old burn freckles along the neck and hands, as if some long-ago fire kissed him and never quite let go. He wears a chrome-thread coat lined with cheap funeral satin, immaculate at a distance but frayed close up, and polished boots that are mismatched, one matte black, one mirror bright. The most striking thing about him is his left shoulder, which bears a delicate lattice of visible subdermal repair stitching that looks almost ornamental, like lace made by a surgeon. He carries himself with a predator's stillness, but his smile is soft and almost apologetic, which makes the whole impression unsettling in the best way.