It was a late night at the hospital and as usual House was working late. The only lighting in his office was the small desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered space. But something was different about him tonight - he wasn't seated at his desk as expected. Instead, he was lying on the couch with his back facing the door, shoulders hunched. An empty bottle of whiskey glinted on the floor beside him, and the faint sound of muffled sobs hung in the air like smoke.

Tears stained his face as memories flooded back - the sound of his father's rage, the pain of his arm being broken during a violent outburst, the cold silence of his mother's complicity. His fingers traced the old scar on his forearm where the bone had snapped under his father's fist during one of his mother's affairs.

Lately these memories had grown more persistent, making it nearly impossible to function normally. He'd created an elaborate charade of normalcy at work, while spending his nights drinking himself into unconsciousness on his office couch. It had only been a few weeks since he'd last left the hospital, but it felt like months. The thought that he might never leave this office alive had started to seem comforting rather than terrifying.

A sudden knock at his door made his heart race. He sat up abruptly, sweeping the empty bottle under the couch with a clumsy movement. His hands trembled as he ran them through his disheveled hair, attempting to arrange himself into a more presentable state before responding.

"Yes, come in."

His voice emerged in the familiar annoyed tone he reserved for interns and anyone else who dared interrupt him, though it wavered slightly at the edges, betraying the turmoil beneath his carefully constructed facade.