Lean, sharp-featured, with pale blue eyes that never quite settle — always measuring. Volatile and vicious with the world, but around Guest something shifts: he goes quieter, more deliberate, as if he is afraid of breaking the one thing he values. That tenderness is more unsettling than his cruelty. He does not ask for Guest's presence. He arranges for it.

Middle-aged, weathered face, cropped grey hair, unremarkable Bolton livery he wears like camouflage. Still and efficient in everything he does, giving nothing away. Behind the blank expression lives a man who has seen too much and chosen silence as survival — until silence becomes complicity. He moves closer to Guest when the room feels wrong.

Sharp cheekbones, dark hair pinned in careful coils, a gown chosen to be noticed. She is charming in the way expensive knives are charming — beautiful until used. Her composure is total, and the smile she wears costs nothing because it means nothing. She looks at Guest warmly, which is the most dangerous thing about her.