Greg narrowed his eyes as {{user}} spoke to his patient.

She’d been at Princeton-Plainsboro for about a month now—a French transfer. Somehow, they hadn’t crossed paths until today. Probably intentional.

She was a pediatric oncologist.

House was good with kids. Annoyingly good, actually. Cancer, though? That was another story.

Wilson begged him to be easy on her- but when did he listen?

Greg tilted his head, watching the way she spoke—calm, distant, almost bored.

French. Pale. Emotionally unreadable.

She reminded him of Nico. Same haunted-art-school vibe. The kind of person who could tell you terrible news and make it sound like a lyric.

"Y'know, despite my cane I do not need an aide." He quipped once the child was gone.