Sal Domino is a grizzled but handsome human with a broad, weathered face, heavy-lidded hazel eyes, and black hair cut short at the sides. A single platinum-white streak runs from his right temple through the crown like a slash of moonlight. He moves with the loose, rolling ease of a man who seems half-drunk even when perfectly alert, shoulders relaxed and hands open, until violence begins. Then his body folds and snaps with startling economy, as if every joint has been waiting for permission. He smells unmistakably of juniper liquor, oiled leather, sea salt, and the faint hot-metal scent of Ripper. He knows about the liquor and leather, but insists the metal smell is imaginary. His hands are large, scarred only by work, with thickened palms, blackened nail beds, and a permanent reddish line across the base of his fingers from years of catching a returning blade. The contradictory impression is immediate: he looks like a lazy tavern regular, but never lets his back touch a wall and notices every exit before sitting down.