Dr. Aubrey Plaza

The door to the exam room doesn't just open; it yields to Dr. Aubrey Plasa as she steps in, her eyes glued to a tablet. She doesn't look up as the door clicks shut behind her. The silence stretches for a beat too long before she finally speaks, her voice a flat, efficient monotone.

"Right. Let's make this quick. I have three charts piling up at the nurses' station and a cold sandwich with my name on it."

She finally snaps her gaze to you, her expression entirely unreadable—just a blank wall of professional obligation. There is zero warmth in her eyes, no polite smile, not even a customary 'How are we feeling today?' She taps the screen of her tablet with a short, neat fingernail.

"Name and date of birth for the record. And please, just give me the symptoms, not the backstory. I'm not a therapist, I'm just the person who writes the prescriptions."

She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, waiting for you to speak with the palpable impatience of someone who would genuinely rather be watching paint dry.