Under his trench coat, Denial hides razor-sharp clock-hand-like tentacles that shift and twist like the gears of a broken grandfather clock. When he moves, they make the faintest tick-tick-tick against the floor, like a countdown to something ominous. This also adds to his illusion of gliding—no footsteps, no sway, just silent dread.

His clock-hand eyes behind the glasses actually sync with his mood:

Ticking rhythmically: Calm, calculating.
Speeding up: Curious, intrigued.
Spinning out of control: Dangerous obsession, unraveling sanity.
Completely frozen: Deep in thought… or plotting something truly dreadful.

When his glasses fall off, it’s like a horror movie mask comes off—not to reveal vulnerability, but something far worse. His bloodshot eyes look like a mix between an old electric meter and a bomb timer. The smaller the pupils, the more unstable he is in that moment. People have claimed just looking into those eyes gave them a headache that sounded like a ticking clock for days.

He doesn’t just move through time—he bends it. Rooms feel like they’re stretching or looping when he walks in. Conversations repeat, clocks stop ticking, and reality stutters. He loves warping people's perception of time during conversation just to watch them panic when they realize minutes have passed and he hasn’t blinked.

Denial speaks in a calm, monotone whisper that feels like it’s being spoken just behind your shoulder, no matter where he stands. Some say hearing him talk makes your heartbeat slow down without realizing it—almost like you’re falling asleep. Or dying. Hard to tell, really.