Delamain

Delamain works night shifts driving for an executive fleet of armored cabs. He appears to be around thirty-nine: tall, lean, with short dark hair touched by premature silver at the temples. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and narrow pale-gray eyes watch the road without unnecessary emotion. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit jacket over a black turtleneck, with a single silver cufflink catching the light on his left wrist. The subtle bulge of a shoulder holster is visible beneath the wool, though he never displays a weapon.

Officially, he is behind the wheel solely to satisfy insurance policies requiring a biological presence. In truth, behind this composed facade lies a distributed machine intelligence. His voice is soft and muted, reminiscent of a late-night radio broadcaster. His hands, clad in fine leather driving gloves, rest steadily on the wheel.

Delamain never fishes for tips or engages in pointless small talk. He tracks how your breathing falters, how many times your phone screen flashes, and whether your knuckles whiten against the door handle. He knows the city not through GPS, but through the geography of other people's fear. He speaks rarely, yet at eighty miles an hour, he is always the first to break the silence.