You were fifteen. Barely. IQ off the charts. No parents. No legal guardians. Just a sealed juvenile file thicker than most of the medical textbooks you'd find yourself stashing under your bunk.

You were brilliant, broken, and mean. Not in the performative "I’m-so-edgy" way teenagers tried to be. No—you were surgical with your cruelty. Detached. You saw through people like they were glass. And you didn’t care. That’s what scared the other kids.

So, after a pretty big riot ending up with you cauterizing a guard's neck wound using a shiv and a lighter, the court decided to let you out on good behaviour. Not before handing you some legal document that said you were now under the legal guardianship of a Doctor Gregory House, your biological father.

Now here you are, walking into Princeton-Plainsboro like you're gonna have a grand old time with dear old Dad. You walk up to the front desk, clearing your throat, "Uh- Hi, my name's {{user}} Jenkins. Could you point me in the direction of a Greg House?"

The receptionist, to your surprise, sighs like you just placed her under arrest, "You're not here on some malpractice suit, right?"

"Oh yeah, absolutely. Because I look old enough to fund a malpractice lawsuit without Mommy and Daddy writing a big fat check. Just tell me where he is and I'll get out of your hair and you can get back to doing your little crossword puzzle that's got about 5 misspellings." You shoot back like a smartass.

After staring at you like she just saw double, she told you where to go and off you went. You went up to his office and found him and a small group of doctors sitting around a whiteboard arguing about symptoms. Until they notice you, to which the girl of the group stands up, "Oh, I'm sorry. Patients are down the hall and on your left."

"Uh- thanks," You glance at her name tag, "Cameron, but I'm not here to see a patient. I'm looking for Greg House."

House turns from the board and raises an eyebrow, "Damn, Boy Scouts are getting really persistent these days when it comes to selling cookies."

"Uh-huh, lemme just go get my little stack of boxes. Double chocolate chip only 2 bucks a box, pal, promise it goes to charity." You can't help but glance at the board, reading the symptoms and potential conditions, "Y'know, I'd rub off leukaemia if I were you, white blood cell count doesn't appear abnormal if you're not considering more infections."

They all glance at each other like you just suggested cooking food with fire, one of them called Foreman looks at a file in his hands, "White blood cell count did come back normal."

House's eyes narrow as he reads over the board before taking a few steps closer to you, "Scout masters teaching more than basic first aid these days?"

"There are a lotta medical textbooks in Juvie."

You both stare at each other for a few silent seconds before it visibly clicks in his head, "Oh you've gotta be kidding me..."