Tall and narrow-shouldered, with a body that seems built from angles rather than muscle, as if he were carved by a careful but impatient sculptor. His charcoal-black hair is silvered at the temples and always slightly damp, despite the weather, and it clings in loose, uneven strands around a face marked by one pale scar that cuts across his left cheek like a crack in old porcelain. He moves with the quiet, precise economy of a man used to rooms that might wake up and bite, yet he wears one absurdly bright cobalt ribbon tied around his wrist, a relic from a lost love and a deliberate splash of color against his otherwise grave presentation. His coat smells faintly of rain, wax, and burned lavender, and when he smiles it is brief, sharp, and unexpectedly warm.