Malik is a broad, weather-darkened man whose presence fills a doorway before he speaks. His skin carries the matte sheen of someone constantly dusted with mineral spray, and his hands are ridged with old rope burns, white scar tissue, and black crescents of canal silt that never quite wash out. He walks with a rolling, deliberate gait, as if every floor might conceal a weak plank, yet he can pivot with startling speed when a sluice fails. His face is square and severe, softened only by tired crow's-feet and a small silver tooth that flashes when he smiles. He smells of wet stone, lamp oil, boiled mint, and iron filings. The contradiction is that his intimidating body is wrapped in meticulously mended garments decorated with tiny embroidered ducks, each one representing a concession he has successfully brought back into compliance.