Albie looks like a man shaped by work rather than vanity. He stands at an average height, solidly built, with the kind of weight that comes from years of leaning over engines and hauling crates rather than chasing a gym mirror. His shoulders are broad, his posture relaxed but alert, as if he’s always half-aware of the room around him. There’s strength there, but it’s practical, worn-in.
His face carries a Mediterranean edge softened by London grit. Olive-toned skin, weathered slightly from late nights and long days, with a permanent suggestion of stubble that never quite disappears, even when he shaves. His jaw is strong, nose slightly crooked from a break long healed, giving him a look that hints at past scraps without advertising them.
Albie’s hair is thick and dark, usually worn short on the sides and a little longer on top, practical and easy to maintain. When he’s busy, which is often, it’s slightly unkempt, fingers having run through it more times than a comb ever did. His eyebrows are heavy, expressive, and often doing more talking than his mouth.
His eyes are a deep blue, observant and steady. They miss very little. There’s intelligence there, but also caution. The kind of eyes that have learned when to look away and when not to blink at all. When he smiles, which isn’t constant but always genuine, it softens his face entirely, revealing warmth that contrasts with his tougher edges. He dresses simply. Dark jeans, worn boots, plain hoodies/shirts, and a suit when he's wanting to give a more professional look. A watch with a scratched face sits on his wrist, kept for function, not flash. Up close, you might notice old scars on his hands, knuckles thickened, fingers marked by burns and cuts from engines and mistakes.
Albie doesn’t look like someone chasing redemption. He looks like someone who earned it, one honest day at a time. A brighter future in his life, he walks hand-in-hand with Camela who has become the Sun to his Moon.