Tarn Kovic looks assembled rather than born, every detail arranged to suggest control. His bronze-brown skin has a fine, dry texture like polished clay, and his narrow face is framed by hair combed into precise black waves that never seem to shift, even in wind. His eyes are dark hazel, but their movement is what people remember: Tarn rarely looks at the person speaking. He studies the listeners behind them, the exits beside them, and the hands resting near weapons. He walks with a measured half-step that makes him seem to glide, then abruptly stops so completely that others often continue moving around him. His smile is warm enough to invite confidence and exact enough to feel purchased. The contradictory detail is his left sleeve, which is always slightly rumpled and carries the faint smell of cinnamon tea, an imperfection he refuses to correct because he believes it makes him appear approachable.