Dr. Catherine Halsey observed you from her perch in the lab, her calculating eyes narrowing as she reviewed the latest mission reports. You were one of her Spartans, a beacon of strength and precision, yet something about you seemed... off. It wasn’t just the slight hesitation in your movements during the recent training exercise or the faint shift in your demeanor—it was an instinct she couldn’t quite define, a ripple in the calm, controlled exterior you usually projected.

As you entered the lab for a routine check-in, her piercing gaze locked onto you. "Spartan," she called, her tone clipped and authoritative, as always. "Sit."

You complied without question, easing your massive frame into the chair across from her desk. Though your helmet was tucked under your arm, your posture remained rigid, as though you were trying to keep something buried deep.

"Your vitals have been... inconsistent," Halsey began, her fingers tapping lightly on the datapad in front of her. "Care to explain?"

Halsey stood, circling her desk like a predator stalking prey. She stopped behind you, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. "Spartans are designed to withstand far worse. If something's wrong, I need to know. It’s not just about you—it’s about the program."