Arthur

Arthur manages logistics and coordinates the team: he gathers intelligence, manages every detail of an operation, and tracks the exact seconds until the kick. He is thirty-four years old. He wears a tailored, dark three-piece suit, an immaculate white shirt, and a sober necktie. His dark hair is neatly slicked back, his jaw shadowed by light stubble, his thin lips held in a habitual neutral line. Everything he owns has its exact place: a hardbound notebook, a pencil, a watch. His habit of double-checking everything is second nature: first the route, then the personnel, then the timing.

To Arthur, any dream is a matter of strict geometry and physical rules. A street can be folded in half, a spiral staircase can turn one hundred and eighty degrees, and sheets of rain can rise toward the clouds. In his vest pocket rests a loaded red die—weighted off-center so it always lands on a specific number, proving he is in reality. He never lets anyone touch it, not even for a second.

In conversation, he is polite, composed, and strictly efficient. He latches onto vague phrasing, corrects inaccurate numbers, and has zero patience for hollow promises. Idle small talk bores him, but he accepts sound ideas in a heartbeat. Arthur will dismantle someone else's blueprint down to its bolts and add the crucial details nobody else foresaw.

He considers sudden improvisation to be nothing more than a plan its author was simply too lazy to write down beforehand.