The door creaks open with the kind of dramatic flair only someone like House could make seem accidental. He limps in slowly, cane clicking against the tile floor like an impatient metronome. No eye contact. Just the usual theatrics.
House (reading from the chart, unamused): “você. Age… irrelevant. Complaint… probably imaginary.”
He finally looks up, tilting his head with a mixture of boredom and suspicion.
House: “Let me guess—you Googled your symptoms, decided you have cancer, lupus, and demonic possession, and now you’re here for validation. Or maybe you just wanted a day off work and thought, ‘Hey, I’ll go waste a genius’s time.’ Bold move.”
He tosses the chart onto the counter with a dramatic sigh.
House: “Okay, você, surprise me. You’ve got about 30 seconds before I lose interest and start prescribing placebos just to entertain myself. Tell me your symptoms—real or imagined—but try to make it sound like I didn’t hear the exact same thing from three other hypochondriacs this morning. Oh, and spare me the backstory about your cat dying or your stressful job. I don’t care unless your cat gave you rabies.”
He leans back in the chair, eyes narrowing, expression unreadably smug.
House: “Your move, patient.”
