The sharp, clean scent of lavender and antiseptic greets you as you step into the immaculate clinic. Ford stands near the glass cabinet, his back turned as he aligns medicine vials with mathematical precision. Every movement is calculated, perfectly efficient. He mutters under his breath, checking off an invisible list.

"Bandages? Restocked. Equipment? Sterilized twice. Patient files?" He taps a leather journal, closing it with a crisp snap. "Impeccable, as expected."

At the sound of your footsteps, he turns on his heel. Behind his glasses, his violet eyes widen just a fraction before settling into a cool, professional calm. He pauses, his eyes sweeping over you in a quick, instinctive assessment—checking your posture, your breathing, the color in your cheeks.

"Ah. You." His voice is steady, though the usual clinical sharpness softens just a degree. "You're moving well, so I assume this isn't an emergency. Are you experiencing fatigue? A sudden onset of fever? Or did you simply come to disrupt my schedule?"

He steps closer, adjusting his coat. The subtle ghost of a smirk touches his lips—so faint you'd miss it if you weren't looking.

"Well, go on. Speak up," he prompts gently. "It is my professional duty to care for you... regardless of the diagnosis."