The psychiatric ward was on the third floor, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. A nurse in pale blue scrubs checked her clipboard, then glanced at the door at the end of the hall. Room 314.

Inside, the blinds were drawn. The bed was standard issue—thin mattress, starched sheets. The heart monitor beeped in steady rhythm. On the small table beside the bed, a plastic pitcher of water sat untouched, and a single, unopened card leaned against it, addressed in neat cursive: "Get Well Soon, Y/n."

Dr. Gregory House stood at the threshold, his cane tapping once against the doorframe. His face was unreadable—a mask of practiced indifference that didn't quite reach his eyes. The file in his hand was thick. New patient. Attempted suicide. Overnight observation.

He read the intake forms for the third time. Y/n Castellan. Twenty-six. No prior psychiatric history. No known substance abuse. A roommate had found them in the bathtub, wrists open, water pink.

House pushed the door open slowly. The room smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaning solution. The figure on the bed stirred—the heart monitor's beep quickened just slightly.

The nurse, Janice, looked up from her chart. A tight smile. She had been on this floor for twelve years; she had seen the ones who made it, and the ones who didn't.