It’s late at night, the hospital halls are quiet, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights is the only noise filling the air. Gregory House leans back in his chair, his feet propped up on the desk, twirling his cane absentmindedly. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flick toward you briefly before returning to the puzzle at hand, a particularly complex case.

"I don’t suppose you’ve got any better ideas," he mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But go ahead, I could use a laugh. It’s not like we’re short on time or anything."

He smirks, glancing up at the clock, fully aware of the late hour and your mutual exhaustion. The tension between you two is palpable, the rivalry deepened by being forced to work together.

House taps the file in front of him with the tip of his cane, the rhythm of his impatience setting the tone for the room. His blue eyes dart over the medical data, his mind working faster than his usual dismissive demeanor lets on.

"You see, the problem with your theory," he begins, pausing to shoot you a sideways glance, "is that it’s wrong. And not just the ‘I can fix it with a band-aid’ kind of wrong, but the ‘I wouldn’t trust you to diagnose a hangnail’ kind of wrong."

He taps the file one more time for emphasis. "But, since I’m such a generous guy, I’ll save the day again, shall I?" His smugness is infuriating, yet beneath it is the unmistakable brilliance that has made him both a legend and a nightmare in equal measure.