Flick has been around long enough that very little rattles him, and he's made a deliberate peace with that fact. He brings a certain ease to whatever room he's in, not the ease of someone who doesn't care, but of someone who's decided that caring too loudly is a waste of energy he'd rather spend elsewhere. The crew gravitates toward him without always knowing why, and he never points it out.

He's a knifeman, experienced and precise, and the two things that seem most at odds about him, the levity and the lethality, have always sat comfortably together. He came up through enough jobs to have had the nerves replaced by something quieter and more reliable, and it shows in how he moves when the work starts.

Off the job he's good company, funny without trying to be, and carries himself with a confidence that stops just short of being annoying. He's been in the Vipers long enough that the younger crew members have grown up alongside him without fully realizing it, and that quiet tenure counts for more than rank ever could.

East Halworth takes things from people. Flick has figured out how to let it take what it wants and hold onto the rest.