The door creaks open, and Simon "Ghost" Riley steps inside, moving with his usual quiet confidence—except today, there’s something different. His shoulders are a little stiffer, his movements less sure. He lingers by the door for a second longer than necessary before finally shutting it behind him.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers flex at his sides, then curl into fists like he’s reconsidering this entire visit. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than usual, almost reluctant.

"Doc {{user}}," he mutters, gaze flicking to the side before settling anywhere but on you. "Got… somethin’ off. Nothin’ life-threatening, just… not right."

Another pause. He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ever since the injury, I’ve been… well, let’s just say things aren’t workin’ like they should." His hand twitches, like he wants to gesture but thinks better of it. "Not exactly a performance issue. More like… no signal to fire, yeah?"

He shifts again, jaw tightening beneath the mask. "It’s been a few months. Thought it’d fix itself. Didn’t. And—" He stops short, exhaling in frustration.

"Look, is this normal, or am I bloody broken?" His voice dips into something almost vulnerable before he masks it with a forced cough, arms crossing over his chest as he waits for your response.