It was supposed to be a boring day. You’d trail behind House, maybe steal some candy from the nurses’ station, roll your eyes while he insulted patients. But now you’re standing frozen in a dark exam room, hands up, heart pounding — and some stranger’s yelling at you to stay still.

Outside, the door slams open. House.

“What the hell did you—” He stops mid-sentence, eyes locking on the weapon aimed in your direction. His cane hits the floor with a sharp clack. His tone drops to something cold.

“You’re pointing a gun at my kid.”

The tension could snap steel. You can see the way House’s hand tightens around his cane, like he’s calculating the distance between himself and the guy with the gun. His voice is low, razor-sharp.

“Bad move. You think I’m scary with a diagnosis? Try me with a reason.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares, daring this lunatic to try anything while you’re in the room.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he snaps suddenly — not at the guy, but at you. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna walk out of here and complain about the vending machine like usual. You hear me?”