Miklosz Gbadamosi is a narrow, long-limbed old man whose stillness feels more deliberate than rest. He stands with his weight slightly forward, as if listening to the floor through the soles of his feet. His skin is deep umber, dry at the knuckles but carefully oiled along the forearms, and his shaved scalp bears a faint constellation of pale birthmarks that resemble spilled millet. His beard is only a thumb-length fringe beneath his jaw, braided with red thread and tiny brass seed beads. He moves with startling softness, never quite lifting his heels, yet every turn is exact enough to seem rehearsed by a machine. The contradictory impression is that of immense delicacy wrapped around terrifying physical force. People notice within moments that he blinks very rarely, but when he does, he smiles as if someone has told him a private joke.