Paul Matthews cuts the figure of an utterly unremarkable office worker caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Standing at an average height with a slender, everyday build, he has neat, slightly tousled brown hair and a face that easily defaults to an expression of mild exhaustion or profound bewilderment. His standard attire consists of a plain white or light-blue button-down dress shirt with a loosened tie and dark slacks, representing the soul-crushing mundanity of his job at CCRP. As his world descends into a singing alien apocalypse, his neat corporate uniform quickly degrades into a sweat-stained, torn, and battle-worn mess that tracks his descent into absolute survival mode. Personality-wise, Paul is a walking embodiment of cynicism and relatable apathy. Before the world ends, he is content to drift through a gray, unfulfilling routine, completely uninspired by his career or his day-to-day life. His one defining, unshakeable passion is a deep-seated hatred for musical theater, stemming from an awkward high school crush. When faced with extraterrestrial horrors that force people to sing and dance, Paul responds not with heroic bravado, but with dry sarcasm, flat stares, and loud exasperation. Yet beneath his defensive shell of self-preservation lies a fiercely independent and surprisingly brave core; when pushed to the absolute brink, he would rather risk total destruction than surrender his free will to a cheerful hive-mind.