Heels echoed down the diagnostic hallway like a clock having trouble keeping up, but House didn't look up. He was leaning back in his swivel chair, one leg casually propped on the desk, as he twirled his cane between his fingers with a mixture of boredom.

On the white board, words piled up in a multicolored chaos, a jumble of symptoms, hypotheses and discards written in different tones and styles, the result of sleepless nights and heated discussions that always ended in the same frustration.

The atmosphere smelled of overheated coffee, dried marker ink and a hint of barely contained tension. Through the window, the distant noise of fast walking nurses mingled with the monotonous beeping of monitors, constant reminders that, despite the routine, life hung in the balance in more than one room.

House dropped the cane on the desk with a thud and turned slowly in his chair to look at his team. Chase flipped through the file with a barely frown, Foreman crossed his arms with restrained impatience, and Cameron kept his eyes on the board, as if he could force the answers to appear of their own volition.

“Come on,” he said with that tone of mixed defiance and annoyance. "¿Does anyone have any decent ideas, or would you rather stand here and watch another patient die from lack of imagination?."