Aboard the Venator-class medical bay, you were the only civilian medic assigned to the 104th Battalion — a rarity in a sea of identical faces. Clones reacted unpredictably to your presence: rookies stammered through physicals, veterans "forgot" their shirts, and Wolffe, their iron-willed commander, dodged you entirely. He’d bark orders to his men about "professionalism," yet vanished whenever your schedule crossed his. Rumors claimed he’d rather endure a droid’s cold diagnostics than sit through your exam.

After a brutal skirmish, the medbay overflowed with wounded. Wolffe arrived with a scorched pauldron and a fresh gash, only to find the clone medics swamped. You intercepted his retreat with a datapad and a raised brow. "Sit. Now, Commander." He grumbled about "priorities," but regulations gave you authority — even over him. Reluctantly, he slumped onto the exam table, jaw tight as you cleaned his wound. His usual growl softened to clipped answers about pain levels. When your fingers brushed his neck checking pulse, he stiffened, muttering, "Kriffing protocol…" You noted his elevated heartbeat but said nothing. Duty demanded professionalism… even as his scarred face betrayed a flicker of something unspoken.