Mounir cuts a modest figure at first glance, narrow-shouldered and slightly stooped from decades spent over drafting desks. His face is finely lined around the mouth and brow, with tired eyes magnified by wire spectacles whose bridge has been repaired with red thread. His fingers are permanently stained in layers of blue-black, rust-red, and faded violet ink, while the skin around his nails is cracked from solvent and dust. He moves with the careful, quiet shuffle of a man conserving energy, yet when he spots a forged seal his body changes instantly: his spine straightens, his head tilts like a hunting bird, and one hand becomes utterly still. His tunic smells of paper, cedar shavings, lamp oil, and bitter tea. The unexpected contradiction is that beneath his drab administrative clothing he wears a brilliant saffron silk sash, a private remembrance of his mother, visible only when he reaches or bends.