Chapter 1: Save a Life, Gain Another Day
David Wells shook his throbbing head and opened his eyes.
What came into view was harsh fluorescent lighting and a scantily clad woman kneeling in front of him, her mascara running down her cheeks in dark streaks.
After seeing David's eyes flutter open, she frantically muttered something about "Thank God" while scrambling to gather her belongings.
She snatched up her purse from the linoleum floor, adjusted her bra strap, and stuffed her discarded pantyhose into the bag with shaking hands.
Then she stood up on wobbly heels, pushed open the supply closet door, and hurried out into the fluorescent-lit hallway.
Feeling the cold air against his bare skin, David froze.
What the hell just happened?
One second ago, he'd closed his eyes for the last time in a sterile hospital room, his body ravaged by stage four glioblastoma.
The next second he was here, apparently having just... what? Gone out with a bang?
The problem was, he didn't remember any of it!
Just as David was processing this absurdity, a sharp pain lanced through his skull.
Countless fragmented memories crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave.
A life, strange yet somehow familiar, flooded his mind.
The original owner of this body was also named David Wells—though everyone called him Dave.
He was a first-year medical intern in the Department of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey.
But this David, who should have had a promising career ahead of him, had been feeling increasingly ill for months.
After secretly seeking diagnoses at other hospitals—afraid of how it would look if his own colleagues discovered his symptoms—he received the devastating news: glioblastoma multiforme. Stage four. Inoperable.
With only weeks left to live, he'd decided to experience everything he'd denied himself during med school.
That's why such a reckless thing happened during work hours, in a damn supply closet no less.
Unfortunately, the rush of endorphins and elevated heart rate from his activities had accelerated the tumor's assault on his brain.
The few weeks he had left suddenly became minutes, and he'd collapsed mid-act, dead before he hit the floor.
At that exact moment, David's dying soul from another reality had been pulled into this empty vessel.
Hence this miraculous resurrection.
David, now understanding that he'd somehow transmigrated into a parallel version of himself, couldn't muster even a bitter smile.
Because of the brain tumor, he was going to die again. Soon.
And before that, he'd suffer the same agonizing deterioration he'd just escaped!
The headaches. The seizures. The slow loss of motor function and cognition.
It would be better to just die now and get it over with!
"This is really fucking perfect," David muttered bitterly.
He punched the metal supply shelf in frustration.
Clang!
Sharp pain exploded across his knuckles, making him wince and curse.
The shelf, naturally, didn't budge an inch—as if mocking his pathetic display of anger.
David exhaled sharply and decided right then: he'd head up to the roof and end this doomed existence on his own terms.
Having died slowly from cancer once before, David knew all too well the torture of aggressive end-of-life treatment.
The false hope. The poisonous chemotherapy. The radiation that left you feeling like a walking corpse.
A state where you desperately wanted to die but everyone around you kept forcing you to cling to life.
Better to jump now and be done with it.
But the moment he stepped toward the supply closet door, as if some cosmic force sensed his suicidal intent, a voice echoed inside his mind—coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
[Life-Saving System initializing...]
[System binding successful. Save a life to extend your lifespan by one day.]
The sudden system notification made David freeze mid-step.
Save a life and extend his lifespan?
If he could actually live, who the hell would choose to die?
And he was a doctor working in a hospital—he could absolutely extend his life by treating patients!
The realization hit him like a defibrillator shock.
David's eyes, which moments ago had been dead and hollow, now burned with desperate hope.
Just then, voices drifted from the nearby hallway.
"Twenty-nine-year-old female, first seizure approximately four weeks ago. Lost ability to speak—can only produce infantile sounds. Periodic cognitive regression, intellectual deterioration..."
"It's a brain tumor. She's terminal. Alright, I'm done here."
Hearing such a dismissive diagnosis, David couldn't help himself. He called out:
"Brain tumors are pretty rare in that demographic."
The voice stopped immediately.
The speaker turned out to be a rumpled-looking man in jeans and a band t-shirt, leaning heavily on a cane. He fixed David with an intense, ice-blue stare.
"Oh, what do I know about diagnostics? How could I possibly know as much as a properly trained oncologist like yourself?" The sarcasm dripped from every word.
David blinked.
Not because of the biting mockery from this stranger.
But because he recognized that face. That perpetual five-o'clock shadow. That caustic expression.
Dr. Gregory House.
Combined with the name Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, everything suddenly clicked into place in David's mind.
He knew exactly where—or rather, when—he was.
The medical drama House M.D. The show he'd binged obsessively during his own hospitalization, trying to understand his condition, hoping the brilliant fictional diagnostician might give him some insight into his own case.
After realizing which world he'd landed in, David's excitement skyrocketed.
Save a life and extend his lifespan? In a hospital that saw the rarest, most complex cases in the country?
He could potentially live forever!
The handsome blond doctor who'd been standing beside House, presenting the case, apparently thought David was intimidated. He spoke up diplomatically:
"My assessment aligns with House's initial impression, so I ordered a full tumor marker panel.
But all three of the most common glioma protein markers came back negative. No family history. No environmental carcinogens we can identify.
And she showed zero response to the radiation therapy we administered this morning.
So it's definitely not a brain tumor."
David turned to look at the blond doctor. Another familiar face—Dr. Robert Chase.
The intensivist from Australia. One of House's original three fellows, and eventually, the head of Diagnostic Medicine after House's... departure.
House glanced sideways at David, then said:
"Well, well. You've successfully piqued my interest. Take me to radiology—I want to see the CT scans myself.
And bring Dr. Wells here. Let's see if our intern has any profound insights to share."
David's lips curved into a slight smile.
House wanted to put him on the spot, test him, maybe humiliate him a little?
Fine.
But David already remembered exactly who this patient was. Which episode. What the diagnosis would be.
Who would end up surprising whom remained to be seen.
Minutes later, the group of three arrived at the diagnostics conference room, where House's team conducted their famous differential diagnoses.
The room was dominated by a glass whiteboard covered in medical terminology and a large lightbox for displaying scans.
House's other two fellows were already there, reviewing labs.
When House entered, they immediately stopped talking and turned to face him, waiting for his assessment.
House limped closer to the lightbox displaying the patient's brain CT, studied it for a moment with narrowed eyes, then announced:
"It's brain damage."
As soon as he said this, the African-American fellow—Dr. Eric Foreman, a neurologist—looked distinctly unimpressed.
"Wow. Brilliant. We can all see the brain damage on the scan, House. You don't need a medical degree to spot that."
House smirked. "You want brilliant? Fine. Wells—you're up. What's your diagnosis?"
Three pairs of eyes immediately focused on David.
Foreman spoke up, his tone skeptical: "How much practical experience can Wells possibly have? He graduated medical school, what, six months ago? Letting him weigh in is just going to waste time we don't have."
Dr. Allison Cameron, the immunologist with a bleeding heart for her patients, added more gently: "I mean, part of our job is teaching the interns, obviously. But maybe throwing him into a case this complex right off the bat isn't the best approach?"
Chase nodded. "I'd say letting him observe is fine. But we shouldn't actually factor his opinion into our differential."
All three fellows, in their own ways, were essentially saying they only wanted to hear House's analysis.
But House remained unmoved, his expression challenging.
"What are you waiting for, Wells? You had plenty of confidence when you contradicted me thirty seconds ago. Where'd that go?"
Facing House's direct challenge, David smiled calmly.
He stepped forward without hesitation, walked up to the lightbox, and pointed at a specific region of the brain shown in the CT scan.
"I think you're all looking in the wrong place."
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