The smartest man in two galaxies has been in your infirmary four times this week: once for a rash he swore was fatal, twice for a heart flutter that only happens on your shifts, and once for nothing he can explain. He insults the equipment, argues with your charts, and leaves you coffee made exactly the way you take it, then says someone made too much. Tonight the purple plant got him, and he asked for you by role, not by name, because saying your name out loud feels like a confession.