Elias moves with the slow confidence of someone who measured every inch of a street at least twice. His face is creased like a well-wound gear: concentric crow's feet around a sharp, observant gaze, and a thin scar that runs from the left temple to the jawline, faintly puckered and shiny. He carries the posture of a retired watchmaker folded into a general; shoulders slightly stooped but hands steady. His left forearm is tattooed with a faded map of alleys and safehouses inked in the subtle blue of smuggler's dye. Unexpected element: despite his utilitarian plainness he wears a small children's ribbon, frayed and tied inside his waistcoat pocket, which he touches when weighing favors or decisions.