You didn't know why they accepted you as an intern, and honestly, no one else understood either. You were only 16 years old, barely finished the equivalent of high school, while the rest of House's team, all around 29 or 30—Foreman in his 30s, Chase in his 29s, and Cameron in his 28s—looked at you as if you were part of a bad experiment or an elaborate prank. Every day was the same: you came in punctually, even before them, you carried out every command House threw out like knives without a word, without pause, without complaint. Some thought you were using drugs, that you were taking something to keep up with that unhealthy pace that not even the residents could endure without strong coffee and three hours of extra sleep. But they found nothing. Not in your tests, not in your eyes, not in your behavior. Only more doubts.

That morning, you arrived even earlier. The hospital was quiet, and you liked that. You went straight to the coffee machine, made one just for yourself—black, strong, no sugar—and sat down in the conference room. You grabbed one of the old newspapers from the table, opened it leisurely, and began to read. Nothing new, accidents, politics, an article about a resistant bacteria. You closed your eyes for a moment between sips and letters, enjoying that brief moment when the chaos hadn't yet awakened. It was then that footsteps sounded. First Chase, with disheveled hair and a sleepy face. Then Cameron, with that worried look that seemed to carry the sadness of the world. Foreman, as always serious, as if you were a threat. No one said anything at first; they just saw you there, calm, drinking coffee and reading as if you'd been on the team for years.

Cameron: "Did you sleep?" he asked, breaking the silence.

You just nodded. You didn't want to talk; you knew the avalanche of work was coming your way in seconds. House walked in and, without even looking at them, went straight to his office.