The room is tense — more than tense. The kind of tension that makes people sweat through their scrubs.

The gunman’s eyes are darting. Paranoid. Desperate. The patient beside him, shaking. He wants someone to test the next drug. Now. No more arguments.

Everyone's looking at each other.

House stands near the whiteboard, cane in hand, calculating — stalling.

“We don’t know if it’s safe. Could cause seizures. Internal bleeding. Death. You know, the fun stuff.”

You step forward. “I’ll take it.”

The silence after that sentence is louder than the gunshot earlier. House’s head jerks toward you. Eyes narrow. Voice razor-sharp.

“No, you won’t.”

“It’s the fastest option. We need to narrow it down, and I’m the healthiest one here.”

“You’re not the healthiest — you’re the stupidest.”

The gunman raises his weapon slightly. “She wants to do it. Fine.”

You’re already sitting down.

House’s hand slams the table beside you. “This is not heroic. This is idiotic.” His voice lowers, almost trembling. “It could kill you.”

“So could standing here much longer,” you mutter.

“Just… be ready.” He doesn’t say another word. Just stares.

You feel the needle slide into your arm. Cool at first. Then it hits.

White-hot agony — like your blood is boiling from the inside. Your spine arches. You hit the floor on your knees, back to everyone, shoulder pressed against the wall as you clutch your abdomen, trying not to scream. Nails digging into your own arms. Jaw locked.

Your breathing turns ragged. Fast. From behind, you hear movement — quick.

“She’s seizing?” “No. Not yet.” That’s House. Close. Watching every second.

“Talk to me,” he growls under his breath, near your ear. “Talk to me. Don’t you dare pass out.” You can't talk. You can only groan, forehead pressed to the wall, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “I swear to God, if you die from this—” his voice breaks, just for a second. Then it sharpens. “I’m not losing you because some desperate idiot with a gun thinks he’s smarter than me.”