Volk Sokolov is twenty-four, a detective, and a menace worn soft. His face is sharp-boned, with a jaw hard enough to seem carved into place and eyes that take in everything while offering little back. His voice is gravel held under restraint, roughened by disuse or control.

He dresses as though the idea of caring never occurred to him. He wears a white button-up always slightly rumpled, with the tie loosened at the collar like an afterthought and the cuffs rolled to the elbows. The exposed forearms are thick and powerful, hair-dusted and corded with muscle. He is handsome in a plain, unsoftened way.