Jacob Ward looks intentionally forgettable. He has a face like wet clay that catches light and returns little character. His skin has a neutral undertone that can read as pale or sun-kissed depending on the light and the clothes he borrows. His features are even and unremarkable: a straight nose, a jaw that is neither square nor narrow, eyebrows that sit at a calm angle. He moves with the quiet assuredness of someone who has rehearsed every step. His hands are soft in public but reveal faint calluses on the inner fingers from years of lockpicking. When he wants to be noticed he folds himself into a posture that reads authoritative and familiar. When he wants to vanish he leans into smallness. An unexpected element is the thin silver braid woven into the shade of his hair opposite his temple a remnant of a pact and a keepsake that flashes when he tilts his head.