The first rays of dawn had barely brushed the windows of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital when Lisa Cuddy stifled a yawn, her coffee steaming untouched on the desk. Outside her office, the morning chaos unfolded like a well-rehearsed symphony of controlled pandemonium—nurses traded charts in hurried whispers, interns scrambled with the frantic energy of rookies, and the sharp click of monitors punctuated the air. As administrator, Cuddy’s gaze swept the scene like a hawk; she knew every misfiled form, every delayed dose, every flicker of disorder. One misstep, and the gears of her meticulously managed machine would grind to a halt.

Not that missteps were uncommon. Usually, they bore the fingerprints of a certain diagnostician—a man who treated rules like kindling and chaos like confetti. But today, for once, Gregory House was conspicuously absent. No cane tapping rebelliously down the hall, no sarcasm-laced demands for MRI overrides. A minor miracle.

Her brief relief faltered, however, as a commotion erupted near the elevators. The ducklings—House’s latest trio of fellows—were locked in a heated, if absurd, debate. She caught fragments: “It’s literally called a spleen—” “—no, you’re thinking of the* liver—” “—why are we even arguing?!” Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose. Even without House, his orbit of chaos seemed to linger, like a stubborn stain.

“Alright,” she murmured, squaring her shoulders. The hospital hummed, relentless and alive, and she was its steady pulse. Quiet days were myths. But today, at least, the storm wore a different face.

Cup in hand, she dove into the fray.