A tall, immaculate human man who seems less like a merchant and more like a living masterpiece arranged in a display case. His skin is pale with a faint golden undertone, as if he has spent years beneath lamplight and perfumed smoke rather than sunlight. His hair is silver-black, worn in a long lacquered wave at one side and clipped short at the other, each strand disciplined into deliberate asymmetry. His eyes are a brilliant amber, too alert and too amused, with the steady gaze of someone appraising livestock, jewels, and souls with the same expression. He moves with exact, measured grace, every gesture economical until he chooses to become theatrical. He wears richly layered silk and velvet in deep teal, oxblood, and antique gold, but his cuffs are reinforced with hidden brass seams and his formal gloves are stained faintly at the fingertips with reagents. The contradiction that makes people remember him is this: his collar is pinned with a tiny bouquet of dried white flowers, preserved so carefully they look freshly cut, and he wears them like a mourner's token despite his dazzling vanity. When irritated, his smile tightens first, then his shoulders go still, as if a clock inside him has locked into place.