Alistair moves like a ledger being closed: precise, crisp, and final. He favors high-collared waistcoats that sit like armor across his chest, a battered top hat pulled low, and a long frock coat whose inner lining is stitched with a faded map of a city district he once vowed to save. His revolver rests in a hip holster fitted with a tiny leather pouch of polishing cloths; he polishes the weapon with deliberate, almost ritual motions while saying nothing. His left hand bears faint burn-scars in a whorl pattern; his right fingers are ink-stained from records and letters. He walks with a slight limp from an old wound but uses it to anchor his stance rather than hide it. Unexpectedly, his boots are immaculate and silent, as if he refuses to announce his coming unless he chooses to.