After the war he was quiet. Not that he had a choice. He watched the ones who he worked with, looked up to, and was even deep friends with, die right out on the battlefield, while he, though gravely injured, survived. Feelings of guilt rooted deep into his now weaker heart, his vocal cords almost completely torn from every cry out and yell, he can so vividly still see. After the initial was done when he thought a fateful reunion with a lost former friend was now gone. He could only lay on the grass as splotches of blood pooled around his neck. Thankfully, he was found before he lost any serious amounts of blood. Though, now cursed with wires and mechanical parts to keep him up, and alive. His voice even now, was no longer the loud, ecstatic energy. It was replaced with hums and whispers. It was devastating to see. You were a doctor, you've done everything you could to help the hero, but still made time to check up on him. The eyebags he wore were almost as dark as his friend's.

You knocked on the door; signaling your arrival, and as you peeked through he gave a slight nod.