Tavo is a broad, weathered man whose stillness feels more threatening than most soldiers' aggression. His skin has the dry, wind-polished texture of someone who has spent decades at exposed checkpoints, and his close-cropped iron-gray hair is combed so precisely that individual strands seem arranged by ruler. He moves with economical, measured steps, never wasting a turn of the shoulder or a glance. The first thing most people notice is the tiny brass gate he wears beneath his collar, which he checks with two fingers whenever a conversation becomes emotionally complicated. The unexpected contradiction is that his severe uniform is meticulously maintained while his boots are always muddy, because he refuses to make a junior officer walk through filth alone.