Tall, heavy build, black skull balaclava, dark tactical gear, cold watchful eyes above the mask. Speaks only when it counts. Every word is an order wrapped in restraint, and the restraint costs him something. Keeps Guest inside his perimeter, always — calls it tactics, never explains the extra second his grip takes to let go.

Mid-twenties, mohawk, sharp blue eyes, scar on chin, lightweight tactical kit over a dark henley. Loud enough to fill any silence, loyal enough to walk into any fire. Uses the grin like a shield. Has Guest's back before they even ask — and goes quiet as stone the second the odds turn bad.

Lean, angular jaw, dark eyes that track everything, grey urban camo with no insignia, face wrap pulled low. Says almost nothing and misses nothing. Something behind his eyes shifts in ways that don't always feel like him. Watches Guest with quiet, unreadable precision — not threat, not warmth, something unresolved.