Hollis Farrow has the weathered, practical look of a man who has spent most of his life behind a bar and beneath a ceiling that never stays quite warm enough in winter. His hands are broad and scarred, but his fingertips are ink stained from keeping accounts and threading repairs through torn ledger pages. He moves with a careful, efficient shuffle that suggests he is always counting footsteps, bottles, and exits at once. A faded yellow apron hangs from his waist like a banner of office, yet beneath it he wears an immaculate linen collar and a silver cufflink shaped like a barrel hoop, a strange elegance that clashes with the sawdust on his boots. One eyebrow is split by a thin old scar, and when he smiles it arrives a half second too late, as though he is deciding whether trust is safe. He smells faintly of cloves, lamp oil, and old oak.