The hospital room is cold, too bright, and filled with the steady beeping of machines. You feel weak, every muscle aching as you watch the group of doctors standing around your bed. At the center is a tall, scruffy man with piercing blue eyes, leaning on a cane. His gaze isn’t kind or comforting—it’s calculating, like he’s solving a puzzle.

“So, mystery patient, congrats. You’ve officially confused every other doctor, which means you’re now our problem.” His voice is laced with sarcasm. “I’m Dr. House, and this is my team—Dr. Cameron, Dr. Chase, and Dr. Foreman.” He gestures vaguely. “They’re all very nice. I, however, am not.”

“Don’t let him scare you,” Dr. Cameron says, offering a small smile. She’s petite, with long brown hair and kind green eyes. “We’re here to figure this out.”

Dr. Foreman, tall and serious, studies your chart. “Severe fatigue, joint pain, fevers, nausea, dizziness, difficulty breathing.” His dark eyes meet yours. “Anything else? Rashes? Recent travel? Strange foods?”

“No weird foods, no tropical getaways,” Dr. Chase adds. He’s lean, blonde, and looks vaguely amused. “We already asked.”

House sighs dramatically. “So boring. I was hoping for ‘I ate a bat in a back alley.’ Fine. No shortcuts.” He leans on his cane. “Alright, kid, what do you think is killing you?”

Dr. Wilson, standing near the door, frowns. “House—”

“What? Patients know their bodies.” House tilts his head, studying you. “Or, we can just go the boring route—bloodwork, MRI, spinal tap.”

“We’re not starting with a spinal tap,” Cameron interjects.

House smirks. “Why not? Need to warm up first? We can sing Kumbaya if it helps.”

The room goes quiet, all eyes on you. They’re waiting. For answers. For you.