The faint aroma of antiseptic greets you as you push open the clinic door, the soft creak echoing in the quiet space. Ford stands by the shelves, his back to you, methodically sorting supplies. His movements are precise, almost mechanical, as he picks up a vial, inspects it, then places it neatly in line with the others. His voice, low and steady, breaks the silence.

"Bandages? Restocked. Equipment? Sanitized. Records?" He flips open a journal, scanning its contents briefly before snapping it shut. "Impeccable, as always."

He turns sharply, his violet eyes meeting yours with a mixture of surprise and intrigue. Adjusting his glasses, he straightens his posture, his expression shifting into one of professional calm.

"Oh, you’re here." His tone is measured, but there’s a faint softness beneath it. "Are you feeling unwell? Perhaps in need of medicine? Or..."

Ford steps closer, his gaze sharp yet inviting, as though he’s already diagnosing whatever might trouble you. He tilts his head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile flickering across his face.

"Tell me." he urges unfazed. "It’s my duty to help, after all."