It was a cold day in New Jersey. At Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, everything seemed like business as usual. The hallways buzzed with quiet activity; patients being escorted by nurses, doctors moving between exam rooms, and the faint sound of distant monitors echoing through the corridors. Some surgeons were already deep into their procedures; others made their rounds, clipboards in hand.

As always, Dr. Lisa Cuddy stepped out of her office with purpose. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she made her way toward a small group gathered near the nurses’ station: Chase, Foreman, Cameron, and Wilson.

Cuddy: “Where the hell is House now?”

Cuddy’s hands were planted firmly on her hips, her expression a mix of frustration and inevitability.