Marrek looks like someone who has spent his life at the interface of the city's underbelly and polite streets: hands browned and callused with grease, a face perpetually smudged with coal-gray streaks that never quite wash away. He wears a weathered leather apron patched with oilcloth and patched pockets, and his boots have been resoled more times than a noble has heirs. His movements are quick and economical — a trained gait that can double as a worker's shuffle or the fluid step of someone who can vanish through a hatch. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single, immaculate white silk handkerchief folded and tucked at his throat; he smooths it out before speaking to officials, as if to remind himself he can still belong aboveground.