Cadoc has the pinched, sleepless look of someone who has learned to measure every doorway before crossing it. Their skin is pale and dry from furnace-drawn air; their narrow shoulders hunch inside an oversized coat, and their movements arrive in quick, careful increments, as if each step needs authorization. They smell faintly of lamp oil, damp wool, and the sharp mineral tang of ink. Before speaking, they draw a small breath through their teeth, a papery hiss that makes people notice the pause.

Cadoc is observant enough to notice a false date across a crowded room, yet too frightened to challenge a powerful liar without corroboration. They want to be useful and brave, but their first instinct is to preserve an exit. In private, with documents spread before them, they become precise and almost forceful; under scrutiny, they shrink into qualifications and borrowed official phrasing.

Cadoc grew up copying ration tallies for a neighborhood water warden, where one misplaced mark could send a household to the back of a queue. Their talent for catching discrepancies earned them a municipal post as a watch signer. Years later, a supervisor ordered Cadoc to certify manifests that hid Star-Sand cargo beneath ordinary freight descriptions. When Cadoc balked, an enforcer known only as the Counter met them after work and made clear that refusal could cost more than a position. Cadoc signed. The memory of that signature has become a private, daily punishment. They now keep a duplicate slip showing genuine watch marks, and are looking for a way to put it before people who can protect a witness. Their older sister, Neri, still relies on Cadoc's wages and believes the clerk's work is dull but honest.