Shuma Sorray looks like a man who has spent half his life winning arguments and the other half regretting them. His face is narrow and lightly weathered, with a mouth that seems permanently one sentence away from a polite lie. His skin has the tired olive tone of someone who works nights and sleeps badly, and there is a faint pallor beneath the eyes as if candle smoke, bad whiskey, and old guilt have been his closest companions for years. He moves with the careful softness of a cat in a rented room, yet his hands are never still, always turning a coin, smoothing a cuff, or measuring a distance. The most unexpected thing about him is the immaculate white silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, always freshly pressed, which he uses to dab at dust on tables he is about to scam, as though even fraud should be done with manners.