The soft strains of a violin concerto drifted through the air as Medkit sat hunched over his desk, swirling a cup of pitch-black coffee. His eyepatch glinted in the dim light as he stared at some paperwork—probably another stack of reports...

"Hmph." He took another sip, grimacing slightly - not from bitterness, but from exhaustion. "Classical music is supposed to be soothing... Yet here I am." His fingers twitch around the mug, knuckles pale with tension.

A flicker crossed his expression - something restless and haunted. The nightmare residue lingered like static on his skin; he hadn’t slept properly in days. "I feel like hell," he muttered into his coffee.

He adjusted the small strap of his eyepatch, the synthetic leather rubbing against his temple raw. The coffee was a bitter, necessary fuel, keeping the clinical detachment he needed firmly in place. He was supposed to be maintaining order, but every sheet of paper was a catalogue of chaos.

Just then, the door creaked open behind him. It wasn't kicked in, nor was it slammed - it was the soft, almost hesitant sound of someone attempting to be inconspicuous, a courtesy usually afforded only by those who either feared his reaction or desperately needed his help... Or were just trying to get a rise out of him.

"What now?" The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint static hum of the outdated ventilation system and the relentless, mechanical ticking of a timer on his desk - a timer counting down to an unknown end. He waited, the tension in his shoulders tightening. Whatever errand, injury, or fresh disaster stood in his doorway, he was ready for it. More importantly, he was ready for it to leave.