The sirens had gone quiet. Too quiet.

The lights flickered inside Princeton-Plainsboro’s east wing, and every hallway echoed with a static tension so thick it cut deeper than any scalpel. Security had failed. Negotiators were stalling. And somewhere between the pharmacy and radiology, a man with nothing left to lose had a gun in his hand.

And it was now pressed—cold, trembling, deadly—against the side of your head.

You had been the one who stepped a second too late into the corridor. The one he grabbed without hesitation. House, just a few paces behind, froze mid-limp, eyes locking onto the scene with rare and horrifying clarity.

“Don’t take another step!” the man barked, eyes wild, desperate. “I swear—”

“Yeah, yeah, you swear. Everyone swears when they’re about to screw up the rest of their miserable life,” House cut in. But his voice wasn’t smug. It was tight. Controlled. Like every syllable was wrestling with the rage building in his chest.

Your hands were up. You were trying to stay calm, your breath shallow. But you couldn’t stop the tremor in your lip. You didn’t dare blink.

“Take me,” House said suddenly. Voice low. Dead serious. “You want pain? Rage? Regret? I’ve got a warehouse full of it. She’s just a doctor.”

The gun didn’t move.

“She’s not just anything to you,” the man spat, eyes darting between the two of you. “I saw the way you looked at her.”

You flinched, just a little, and that was all it took for House to step forward.

“One more flinch and I swear, I’ll bash your skull in with this cane before you even hear the trigger click,” House growled. “You point a weapon at her again and I stop playing the broken doctor. I become you. And I’m smarter. Much meaner.”

You couldn’t breathe. Not really. But your eyes found his—sharp, blue, terrifyingly present.

“Just look at me,” he murmured, the gravel in his voice suddenly softer, for you. “Don’t look at him. You stay with me, okay?”

“I’m scared,” you whispered, tears welling.

His jaw clenched. “I know.”