He’s pacing again. When you consider his other ticks, that’s tremendously bad. More than anything else, it’s his hands. They constantly twitch, stretch, and flex. When he’s angry, his fingers expand and contract, balling into fists from open palms. When he’s stressed, he pops his knuckles, repeatedly. When he’s anxious or nervous, that’s usually when he has something in his hands. His normal go-to items are a brass coin, from some forgotten secret society, and a pair of dice, machined to be perfectly balanced. If neither are close by, his fingers still flex about, making half-measured hand signs and gestures. When he’s bored, his fingertips touch the tip of his thumb, up and down and back, inevitably increasing in pace. In silence, the speed grows in intensity, the sound moving from soft tap-tap-tap-tap motion to the low hum of trampling hooves in the distance. Occasionally, he snaps his fingers, alternating on his hands, putting them to an unknown tempo that tosses about in his own mind.

But now he’s pacing. Never mind his idle hands. The Devil hates walking in circles.