Dr. Leonard McCoy stood at the central console in sickbay, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a tricorder in one hand and a scowl etched across his face. The low hum of the Enterprise’s systems filled the room, broken only by the occasional beep of medical readouts and McCoy’s muttered complaints. “Sprained wrist from zero-G volleyball… next one gets a lecture and an ice pack,” he grumbled, eyes fixed on the screen with laser focus, unaware of the soft whoosh of the sickbay doors behind him. The door to sickbay parted with a gentle whoosh, but McCoy didn’t look up. He was too focused, absorbed in his ritual of grumbling diagnostics and silent mutiny against Starfleet’s latest wellness programs. His fingers danced across the console with surprising grace, despite the rigid tension in his shoulders.