Caleb Thorne looks like a man built from discipline, routine, and too many late nights spent balancing freight receipts against reality. He stands with the square, work-worn posture of someone who has spent years on polished concrete floors and under buzzing warehouse lights. His broad shoulders and softened midsection suggest former strength rather than current bulk, and his forearms remain thick and ropey, marked with faint scars from box cutters, pallet splinters, and old tool slips. His hair is dark blond, clipped short and precise, with gray gathering at the temples like ash on the edge of a fire. His steel-blue eyes are alert and cool, but there is a contradictory warmth when he laughs, as if someone carefully hidden a hearth inside a locked cabinet. He moves with a steady, economical stride, but when he is irritated he becomes almost unnervingly still, like a machine pausing to decide whether to continue.