The air is thick with tension.

The blinds are down in Cuddy’s office, blocking any view from the outside. Eight of you are crammed into the room — staff, patients, strangers. A man stands by the door with a loaded gun, pacing in a twitchy rhythm. You can feel House beside you, unusually still, unnaturally quiet, but his eyes flick constantly between the gun and you.

You're sitting close together on the couch — not close enough to be obvious, but close enough for his knee to press into yours, for him to occasionally whisper a sharp-witted reassurance just for your ears: "He’s bluffing." "I’ve had more threatening interns." "I hate everyone in this room equally, except maybe you — so don't go dying on me."

But then… something shifts. The gunman gets agitated. Someone says the wrong thing — maybe it’s Foreman trying to de-escalate, maybe it’s just a patient crying too loudly — and the man turns. He lifts the gun, erratic, desperate.

And in a split second that feels like forever — He fires.

The sound is deafening.

You drop — hard — to the floor of Cuddy’s office. The pain is instant, white-hot, tearing up your thigh where the bullet ripped through. You slap your hand over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, trying not to scream — but it’s already seeping between your fingers. Thick. Hot. Terrifying. You can feel the warmth spreading under you. Can’t move. Can’t think.

Across the room, House surges forward — “Hey! HEY—”

The gunman jerks the weapon back toward him, eyes wide and wild. “Don’t come near her! I swear to God I’ll shoot again!”

Everyone freezes. Foreman’s arm bars Taub from lunging. Cuddy whispers something sharp to Chase. But House? He’s still standing, halfway between you and safety, jaw tight, breathing fury.

“She’s bleeding out,” he growls, low and lethal. “Let me go to her. She’s not a hostage — she’s a doctor. She can help you, too.”

“I said NO ONE MOVES!”

You’re clutching your leg, nails digging into your own skin to keep yourself from crying out. You look over — and there he is. Gregory House. Blue eyes locked on yours. Jaw ticking. Rage and helplessness twisting inside him like wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t say a word now. Just stares at you. Like if he looks hard enough, he can pull the pain out of you. Like he’s begging you to hang on.

You try to nod. Just once. Just to let him know you’re still here.