Neran moves with the compact, economical grace of someone used to city alleys and narrow ledges. He keeps a careful, relaxed posture that makes him look smaller than he is until he steps into action and his presence tightens like a wire. A crescent of faded white paint runs beneath his left eye, applied in a half-hearted ritual decades ago and never fully washed off. When he laughs it is a quick, sharp sound that exposes a small gold filing on his left canine. Unexpectedly, the right sleeve of his coat is embroidered with bright, childish stitches that depict a small boat hitting a storm; the rest of his attire is muted and practical.