Ezra moves like a man whose body remembers formations and drills. He has close-cropped hair, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and a faint white scar that arcs from the left side of his jaw to his ear. His security vest is layered over an old olive-emerald Dofflelock uniform shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms freckled from mountain sun and stained with grease from refinery work. He wears a faded unit patch sewn onto the right shoulder and a small brass token nailed inside his chest pocket - a bent town coin from Marion worn smooth by nervous fingers. When calm he is slow and deliberate; when alarmed he becomes taut and precise, movements snapping into a practiced economy. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small paper crane folded and tucked behind his right ear; it flutters when he runs and looks almost incongruous with his hardened bearing.