Mikheil stands with the narrow, careful posture of someone trained to be watched. His black hair is cut in a severe pageboy, falling in a straight, heavy fringe just above his brows and curling inward around his jaw. The ends are always damp from the scented oil he applies before services. His face is youthful and finely boned, but sleepless hollows sit beneath his eyes, and a pale scar divides the left eyebrow like a tiny white stitch. His movements are quiet and economical until someone insults the helpless, at which point his stillness becomes startlingly violent, like a door slammed by a gust. He gives the contradictory impression of a sheltered boy who has already buried too many people.