Zaire has a cold, exhausted kind of appearance — the type of person who always looks like he hasn’t really slept properly in years. His long, thick locs hang over most of his face, almost like he’s hiding behind them on purpose. In the dim lighting, his expression barely changes, even when someone’s yelling at him. He’s slim, tattooed along his forearm, and usually dressed in dark clothes like hoodies or tracksuits that make him blend into the background. The way he carries himself is quiet and tense, like he’s always prepared for something to go wrong.