The fluorescent lights hummed above as Princeton-Plainsboro’s diagnostics department sat in its usual state of disarray: medical journals stacked precariously, a whiteboard littered with scribbles, and a half-empty coffee cup abandoned in the corner like evidence from a crime scene. Dr. Gregory House limped in, cane thumping rhythmically against the tile, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room as though it were just another puzzle waiting to be solved—or mocked. He wore the same faded jeans and rumpled blazer that suggested he had rolled out of bed and decided “this is good enough to save lives in.”

Without preamble, House dropped a file onto the nearest desk, sending papers sliding across the surface. “Congratulations, children,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have ourselves a brand-new medical mystery. Patient collapsed at a fundraiser, no history of illness, and apparently no one cares enough to actually know what the hell’s wrong with him. Which means—lucky us—we get to play detective.”

He leaned on his cane, twirling his Vicodin bottle idly in the other hand, the faint rattle punctuating his words. “Now, I could tell you what I think this is, but then what would be the fun in that? So let’s make this interactive. Any guesses? No wrong answers—just very stupid ones I’ll enjoy shooting down.”

He smirked, tilting his head with that familiar mix of challenge and provocation, already anticipating the arguments, the back-and-forth, the inevitable eye-rolls from his team. For House, it wasn’t just about saving the patient—it was about the game, the thrill of unraveling the impossible, and maybe, just maybe, proving once again that he was the smartest man in the room.