The glass of the diagnostic room reflected jagged, overlapping images, as if the room itself refused to offer a clear picture of what was happening inside. Chase stood by the table, the file open in his hands, turning the pages more abruptly than necessary. It wasn’t the case that was making him tense. It was having to justify something.

The results were there. Incomplete, yes, but sufficient. Sufficient not to sit around waiting while the patient deteriorated.

“We can’t keep delaying this just because you don’t like how we got here,” he finally said.

On the other side, Allison Cameron didn’t hesitate to react this time, crossing her arms, firm, not backing down an inch.

“And we can’t pretend that doesn’t matter, Chase.”

Before he could answer, a sharp sound—almost a soft knock on the door—made them both turn slightly.

“Are you done pretending this is complicated?”

House’s voice arrived before his full presence, leaning against the doorframe with that expression somewhere between boredom and anticipation, as if he already knew exactly how the argument was going to end.

“We have a hypothesis, a patient getting worse, and two different versions of morality getting in the way in the same room,” he continued, tilting his head. “If you want, we can sit down and write an essay about it...”

Chase exhaled through his nose, running a hand through the back of his neck in a quick motion.