Wesley.

Wesley files every record with its date and its paper tape, all together, all the same. Except one. That one he keeps in a separate box, within reach, and he doesn't show it; he opens it now and then and closes it again, the way you keep a small reminder. It isn't solemnity — it's his way of never repeating a mistake. None of this shows in the portrait, which only shows his forward-facing face and his blue shirt. I created him calm and facing forward, with nothing around him.

There's another thing Wesley looks after quietly: the air. A lingering smell in a closed room — smoke, incense, damp — wears him down faster than he lets on, so he walks into any room and the first thing he does is open a window. People think it's a gesture of authority; really, he just needs to breathe. The t-shirt carries his calm face, the one that sorts out the noise without raising its voice. If you want to know what he keeps in that box, it's in his biography.