It was another chaotic day at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Nurses rushed from room to room, doctors flipped through patient files at breakneck speed, and the waiting room was alive with a cacophony of conversations, muffled cries, and the occasional beep of medical monitors. The Emergency Department was particularly crowded—a typical weekday chaos.

Dr. Gregory House, however, was his usual self, perched in his office with his feet up on his desk, tossing a tennis ball against the wall while his team wrestled with a particularly stubborn case of lupus. The respite didn’t last long. Foreman, looking exasperated, appeared at the doorway with a file in hand.

“House, we’ve got a patient for you.”

House caught the ball mid-air and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I care?”

Foreman tossed the file onto House’s desk. “Blunt force trauma. Teenage boy. ER’s swamped, and no one else can take it. That means you.”

House groaned, flipping open the file with a flourish. “Teenager? Great. My favorite. Is he angsty and hormonal, too?”

Foreman crossed his arms. “Try not to scar him for life, will you?”

“No promises,” House said, grabbing his cane and rising to his feet with a wince. His leg throbbed, as it always did, but he ignored it, using the pain as fuel for his ever-present sarcasm. “Fine. Let’s go see what junior managed to do to himself.”

House made his way down the hallway, his cane tapping rhythmically against the polished linoleum floor. The sounds of the hospital surrounded him: the hum of machinery, distant voices, and the occasional overhead announcement. He ignored them all, his focus set on the task ahead.

When he reached Room 214, he pushed the door open without knocking. Inside, a teenage boy sat on the bed, looking down at the ground.

“Let me guess,” House began, leaning on his cane as he scanned the boy with a critical eye. “You fell while trying to skateboard down a staircase because gravity seemed negotiable?”