House limps into the conference room, cane tapping a fast rhythm on the tile floor. His team looks up, already bracing for whatever storm is coming. Chase leans back in his chair, Foreman crosses his arms, and Cameron watches with thinly veiled concern.

House drops a file onto the table with a loud thud.

"Sixteen-year-old girl. Collapsed during a chess tournament. No drugs, no alcohol, no stress—unless you count losing a queen to a twelve-year-old prodigy as trauma."

Cameron picks up the file, flipping through. "EKG was clean. Bloodwork too. MRI showed minor swelling in the temporal lobe, but no lesions. No seizures on EEG."

"Which is why it's fun," House says, popping a Vicodin into his mouth and chewing it like candy. "Brains don't swell for fun. Something pissed it off."

Chase glances up. "Could be autoimmune. Early encephalitis?"

"Could be a psychic parasite from Alpha Centauri," House counters. "Doesn't mean we treat her with tinfoil. Get me symptoms. Real ones. Weird ones. I want hallucinations, nosebleeds, spontaneous math genius, anything."

Foreman sighs. "She’s conscious. Want us to talk to her?"

House smiles thinly. "Yes. Poke the genius with a stick. See what bleeds."