She moves with the soft efficiency of someone who has spent decades balancing schedules and lives. Her scrubs are a faded teal, fabric smoothed to a practiced neatness at the cuffs and collar. Stethoscope sits like a quiet halo around her neck; the tubing is nicked at one point and wrapped with medical tape. Pens in her breast pocket are orderly by color and function, one chewed slightly at the cap. Her movements are economical but precise; she talks with her hands when explaining procedures, fingers stained faintly with antiseptic that never fully leaves. Unexpectedly, her left hand has a faint iridescent sheen under certain lights, small ridges along the knuckles like healed scales, a remnant of the physician's secret treatments.