Vogler, without saying another word, smiled falsely and continued on his way, making Dr. Cuddy—who seemed nervous from the interaction—quickly follow him.
Thinking about the implications of his words, I stayed behind, standing alone for a few seconds. Honestly, if the order to work on something tangible hadn't been so meticulously manipulative, I wouldn't have had any problem complying. After all, I was using the hospital's resources—in the official books—without giving anything in return.
My work with the team and in the clinic was far from common knowledge. It couldn't officially be in any of the hospital's records because, I was fairly certain, it was a crime.
Unable to do anything about it at the moment, I continued on my way to the diagnostics lounge.
In the lounge, I found no one, but after setting my things down, I spotted a chart on the office table. Apparently, the new patient was real and not just an excuse Dr. Cuddy had used to get me out of that uncomfortable situation. Deciding to use the time alone to catch up on the case, I picked up the chart to read it.
Several minutes after my arrival in the lounge—"You're here," House said, exaggerating his exasperation as he entered through the door. "I was waiting for you in the lab—" he continued but stopped abruptly upon seeing my face.
"Come on, say it. I know you want to," I said, setting the papers down on the table and narrowing my eyes, bracing myself for one of House's bad jokes.
"You did something to your face. You look much better," House declared triumphantly, grinning.
"Got it out of your system?" I asked sarcastically. "If so, then tell me, how was I supposed to know you were waiting for me somewhere else?" I added, frowning.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm pretty sure more jokes will come to me," House replied to my first question. "And, I don't know, some people claim you're some kind of genius. Couldn't you have figured it out somehow?" he asked with mock obviousness, making a strange face.
"Sorry, I guess I was distracted," I said ironically. "Did you know there's a new chairman of the board?" I asked, leaning back in the chair.
"Yeah, I heard," House replied, nodding. "Paid his way to the top. Not very impressive," he added indifferently.
"Well, I think you'll like him," I said sarcastically.
"I have a strange feeling you don't actually mind those words," House said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"Well, he implied that I waste hospital resources," I said, slightly offended. "And that I should focus on publishing more for the hospital," I added.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I practically regretted saying them. I was certainly upset, and since House was the first person I'd spoken to about it, I might have shared too much.
Smiling like a child who'd just found a new toy, House leaned on his cane for a second. "Oh, poor you," he finally said with dripping condescension. "Do you need to go home and cry to your mommy?" he asked, making a pouting face.
"Okay, stop that," I said, practically pleading, pressing my hand to my forehead.
"No, no, talk to me. Get it all out," House declared with fake concern. "Tell me, what hurt more? Getting punched in the face or having a millionaire attack your ego?" he asked, smiling maliciously.
"Are you done?" I asked, feeling the familiar onset of a headache.
"Let me think for a moment," House responded, raising a finger and closing his eyes, pretending to meditate on his answer. "Yes, I think so," he said after a few seconds. "Does it really matter that much to you what some millionaire thinks of you?" he asked, surprisingly serious.
"Well, normally I wouldn't care, but this time, it turns out that, on top of having a lot of money, he also has the power to affect my mom's work," I replied immediately.
"Oh, well, that's a good point," House said, pressing his lips together while nodding. "Then I suggest you stop wasting hospital resources and actually do something productive," he added meaningfully, raising the watch on his wrist.
Understanding immediately what House meant, I sighed and stood up.
"Let's go," I said, exasperated, walking out of the office toward the clinic.
"What do you think about the case?" House asked as we walked down the hospital hallway.
"I don't understand why you took it," I replied immediately. "From what I read in the chart, it's a clot," I added, frowning.
"Wow, not being acknowledged by a millionaire really got to you," House said, feigning surprise. "His occupation was in the chart."
"You took the case just because he's the CEO of a company?" I asked incredulously. When I'd read the chart, I'd assumed a logical explanation would be that Dr. Cuddy had forced House to take it because the patient was a VIP. But knowing House, he would've said so immediately—"Mom made me" or something like that.
"Well, yeah. Unlike you, I'm actually someone important," House replied, clearly not planning to stop mocking my moment of vulnerability. "He came all the way to Texas just to see me," he added, surprisingly proud.
"You're not lying. You really took the case out of arrogance," I said, amused.
My words made House puff out his chest as he walked, smiling smugly.
"I was bored," House admitted a couple of seconds later when we reached the clinic.
"Now it makes sense," I muttered, genuinely unimpressed.
Ignoring me, House continued walking to the usual exam room, undoubtedly to immediately start reading his magazines or playing with his handheld console.
"Oh no, look at your beautiful face. Who did this to you?" Fryday, the nurse in charge of the clinic, asked with visible concern as soon as she saw me.
"You should see the other guy," I joked, leaning on the reception desk.
"Oh, don't be like that," Fryday said, frowning and lightly hitting my arm, though she smiled sweetly afterward. "You're too handsome to risk your face in silly fights," she added, seeming genuinely offended.
"I know," I declared arrogantly. "But what can I do? I'm an athlete," I added, feigning defeat.
"Oh, poor you," Fryday said, smiling in amusement. "So, what can I do for you, sweetheart?" she asked a moment later.
"The usual," I said, nodding toward the exam room.
"Of course," the woman said, slightly exasperated, clenching her jaw as she looked at the exam room door where House was likely already comfortably sprawled out.
From one corner of the desk, Nurse Fryday slid a small stack of charts toward me.
"Here you go. Have fun," she declared, raising her eyebrows.
"Thanks, I'll try," I replied, taking the first chart from the pile. "Mrs. Mason?" Holding the chart, I called out loudly, drawing the attention of everyone waiting their turn.
A woman in her mid-forties, who had obvious skin irritation on her arms—which she was scratching at that moment—stood up. "Yeah?" she asked.
Likely a rash caused by an allergen.
"This way, please," I said to the woman, gesturing toward the exam room door. I smiled at Fryday one more time before walking ahead to open the door for her.
Just as I'd guessed, the woman had come to the clinic because of a strange rash whose cause she didn't know. It wasn't until I asked about her perfume that she mentioned, almost casually, a recent purchase of a new fragrance—around the same time the rash had appeared.
After giving her a simple treatment plan, I sent her on her way, updating her chart before heading out for the next patient.
As always, clinic work—while a great opportunity to test my diagnostic skills—was exhausting due to how repetitive and straightforward most cases were.
After probably a dozen patients, I took the next chart from the reception desk. "Jack Van Der Meer," I called out again to the crowd of waiting people.
From among those seated, a man with a boy—likely around Gabe's age—stood up.
"That's me," the boy said, walking toward the exam room with his father without me having to direct them.
Inside the exam room, I motioned for the boy to sit on the bed. "All right, what's up, dude?" I asked, fist-bumping him.
As I spoke with the boy, I noticed his father staring strangely at House, who remained seated, reading his magazines.
"That's Dr. House. He's here to make sure I'm doing my job right," I explained to the man.
House, without looking up from his magazine, just raised a hand in a disinterested greeting.
"So, what brings Jack to the hospital today?" I asked, using hand sanitizer and instinctively addressing the adult first.
Generally, it was the parents who gave the initial explanations when children came in for check-ups, so I always asked the adults before confirming with the kids.
Contrary to my expectations, "I have a sore throat," Jack answered immediately.
"Ok," I murmured for a second, taken by surprise. The man didn't even seem to have attempted to say anything.
"All right, then, Jack, tell me—when did you first feel your sore throat?" I asked the boy, sitting on a small wheeled stool. "Today, yesterday, last month?" I asked playfully.
"Yesterday," the boy replied, slightly huffing.
"Yesterday," I confirmed, nodding. "So, did you do anything fun yesterday or the day before?" I asked calmly. "Talk nonstop for hours? Sing really loud? Scream at the top of your lungs? Maybe ate something very acidic?" I added, picking up his chart and a pen, speaking with absolute seriousness.
"No," the boy answered after thinking for a couple of seconds, making a small pout as he shook his head.
"Ok, does it hurt on just one side or your whole throat? Does it only hurt when you swallow or all the time?" Raising an eyebrow, I asked inquisitively, pointing at my own neck to give the child an idea.
"My whole throat, and when I swallow," he responded this time without hesitation.
"Sounds pretty uncomfortable," I declared, nodding. "I'm going to touch your neck a little. Lift your face up like this, please," I added, tilting my head exaggeratedly upward.
The boy laughed and imitated me, causing him to have to hold his glasses, which nearly flew off his face from the sudden movement.
"Perfect," I murmured, moving to his side. "What I'm doing is palpating his lymph nodes. If they're swollen or tender, it's a sign of infection. I'm also checking for any swelling or abnormal masses," I explained to the father, who—unlike most parents—hadn't asked a single question or made a single comment during the exam. "No masses, but there is swelling," I added, pressing gently to gauge the boy's reaction. He flinched definitely in pain.
The man, aside from sitting with perfect posture, was dressed in high-quality clothes, with strangely well-kept hands with no obvious signs of manual labor, or anything else that could give more information about him.
"You can put your head back to normal," I told the boy once I was satisfied with that part of the exam. "I think it's a bacterial infection, so we'll do a culture," I continued, explaining to the father while rummaging through the drawers for what I needed.
Again, the man stayed silent, which was getting stranger by the minute.
"Okay", I muttered again, uncomfortable with the man's silence.
"So, this is definitely gonna be uncomfortable, but I promise it'll only take a couple of seconds," I told the kid, gathering everything for the swab and sitting back in front of the boy. "Now, if you don't cough in my face, I promise the nice nurse at reception will give you some chocolates. She has every kind of chocolate you can imagine."
Fryday had a secret stash full of different chocolates, which she usually didn't share with anyone—except me. And since throat swabs are pretty uncomfortable, bribing kids with candy worked like magic. Usually.
"Ok," the boy immediately said, nodding in agreement.
"Ready?" I asked seriously, getting an equally serious nod in return. "Let's go then," I declared, as if taking the sample were some grand mission. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue—real big, yeah, that's it. Five seconds."
With practiced ease, I swabbed the back of the boy's throat, immediately seeing the discomfort on his face. "Two more seconds," I said. "That's it," I added, quickly pulling back to avoid the coughing fit that hit him the second the swab left his throat.
Smiling triumphantly at not being coughed on, "good job men" I told the kid, patting him on the shoulder.
"All right then, in a couple of days, we'll know what's growing in Jack's throat and if we need to adjust his treatment with antibiotics. Until then, he'll take paracetamol every eight hours, watching for fever or other signs of worsening—vomiting, lethargy, trouble breathing." I spoke to the man, who was still completely silent, as I stored the swab. "Any questions, Mr. Van Der Meer?" I asked, now annoyed by the man's complete silence.
The man, who hadn't even opened his mouth once during the entire visit, simply shook his head silently.
"Ok," I murmured slowly, mildly frustrated.
"Oh, he can't talk," Jack said, as if suddenly remembering. It seemed like he'd forgotten to mention it earlier.
"Sorry?" I asked, confused and ashamed from having been frustrated with a mute person for not speaking.
"He had knee surgery," Jack explained easily.
"Wha—" I started completely taken by surprise by the child's words.
Slamming his magazine shut, "Is that right?" House interrupted me sarcastically.
Jack, who had probably forgotten House was behind him, jumped at the sudden noise, turning to look at him with wide eyes.
Once he calmed down "About a year ago, and then he couldn't talk," Jack answered, shifting his attention between House and me.
"Right," House muttered, standing up. "Yeah, well, that happens," he added sarcastically, snatching the plastic tube with the swab from me. "You know, it's very dangerous operating so close to the vocal cords," he said ironically, eyeing the mute man suspiciously.
Obviously, House—like me—found it nearly impossible that a healthy adult would suffer permanent speech loss as a result of a knee surgery. There was a chance of a complication like a stroke caused by anesthesia, the intubation or a blood clot, sure, but it was practically nonexistent.
Seeing that the man didn't react to his sarcasm, "Okay," House murmured. "Well, we'll send your kid's culture to the lab," he added, walking to the exam room door. "And somebody will call you," he said, standing in the doorway while Mr. Van Der Meer simply nodded.
Checking my watch and realizing clinic hours were finally over, "Boo!" I jumped horribly startled when House suddenly shouted out of nowhere.
Jack, who was just as startled as me, yelped in surprise, while Mr. Van Der Meer merely flinched—ruining House's obvious test.
"Just wanted to see if your dad, you know..." House murmured, explaining to Jack. "Bizarre," he added shamelessly before leaving the exam room.
"I'm sorry about that," I said, embarrassed, feeling responsible since I was the only one left. "Should we get your chocolate?" I asked Jack, trying to move past the awkward moment.
"Oh, yeah," Jack replied, quickly remembering my promise and immediately forgetting the scare he had felt.
"All right, come on," I said, smiling at the boy, who—along with his father—stood and followed me out.
Outside the exam room, House was at the reception desk, handing over the plastic tube.
"Here's the paperwork," I said, smiling apologetically at Fryday as I placed the chart and lab forms on the desk.
"Oh yeah," House said, grabbing a pen and signing what was needed—after all, he was the doctor.
"House, a word," Dr. Cuddy said, stepping out of her office doors. For some reason, obviously House's fault, she sounded annoyed.
"Here we go, mommy is mad," House muttered sarcastically, walking away from the desk with Dr. Cuddy right behind him.
Watching House leave with Dr. Cuddy, who caught up to him almost immediately, I just sighed and turned my attention back to Fryday, smiling softly.
"What?" Fryday asked, smiling as if she already knew I was about to ask for something.
"My friend Jack here is a really good kid," I said, widening my eyes dramatically while patting the boy's shoulder.
"Oh, PJ," Fryday said, pressing her jaw lightly, immediately understanding what I was asking.
"Oh, come on, Fryday" I said, imitating Georgie's puppy-dog eyes as I leaned on her desk. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but—you know you're my favorite nurse, right?" I asked softly.
"Yes," the older woman said, shaking her head with a smile on her face visibly blushing.
"Just a couple of chocolates?" I asked, tilting my head slightly.
"All right, all right, just for you," Fryday finally relented, nodding while rolling her eyes. "What's your favorite chocolate, honey?" she asked Jack, opening a drawer filled with different chocolate bars.
"What did I tell you?" I asked arrogantly, playfully nudging the boy's arm. "Go on, pick a couple," I added, urging him behind the desk.
Once Jack had chosen his chocolates, he stepped back out with his father, who had a small smile on his face.
"Thank you," Jack said, smiling at me.
"You're welcome," I said, winking at him.
Father and son, still smiling, started walking toward the clinic exit.
"Ah, Mr. Van Der Meer," I called, stopping the man. "One every eight hours, you can fill it at the pharmacy," I added, handing him the prescription, signed by House, and pointing to the pharmacy across from the clinic.
Still smiling slightly, the man took the prescription and tried to pull it away—but I held on tightly.
Leaving a couple of seconds, making the man visibly nervous "Good luck," I said, studying his face carefully before finally letting go, making his arm jerk back.
House was right, the man was definitely lying.
"Be good," I said in a playful warning, pointing at Jack while ignoring his father, who was now who was staring at me.
Gently taking his son's arm, without waiting for anything else, the man alongside his son walked quickly away.
Watching Jack and his father leave, I waited a few seconds before turning my attention back to Fryday.
"Do you need anything else, sweetheart?" the woman asked, smiling at me while unwrapping a chocolate without looking.
One thing I found incredibly surprising was how nurses and high school girls shared the same talent for gossip.
Leaning on the desk again, checking my surroundings, which made Fryday nervously stop what she was doing to imitate me, "What have you heard about the new chairman of the board?" I asked in a low voice.
"Oh," the nurse murmured, immediately covering her mouth, equally surprised and excited—probably because I was interested in the hospital's latest gossip. "Edward Vogler, he's a billionaire with a capital B," she said, widening her eyes to emphasize the intensity of the situation. "He bought his position by donating a hundred million to the hospital," she continued, raising her eyebrows.
"Yeah, I know that," I said, nodding quickly. "But what about him as a person? Have you heard anything interesting?" I asked, referring to the entire nursing staff as a single entity.
"Well, at the board meeting, he told this story about his father and Alzheimer's and how it was his dream to cure incurable diseases," Fryday said, lowering her voice even further.
"Really?" I asked, surprised. Could I have misjudged the man? Did he actually have good intentions?
"But—and you didn't hear this from me," Fryday stopped me, raising a hand. "Some nurses in oncology think he's full of... you know, shit," she added, pausing as if saying the curse word was unthinkable. "Their words, not mine," she clarified a moment later.
"Why?" I asked, intrigued.
"His pharmaceutical company needs to start clinical trials for a new drug to relieve chemotherapy symptoms," Fryday said, a serious note in her voice. "They say he hadn't even officially taken the position yet, and the hospital had already received shipments of the experimental drugs."
"No way," I muttered, thinking about the odds of a hospital chairman not using his position's power to fast-track clinical trials for a pharmaceutical company that just happened to be his own.
"Yes way," Fryday said, clenching her jaw. "What do you think?" she asked, interested.
"Nothing good, but what can we do?" I replied immediately.
"I know. Money talks, right?" the nurse asked ironically.
"Yeah, well, thanks for the insight," I said, straightening up. "If you or anyone else hears anything else, could you let me know?" I asked.
"Of course. Like I said, anything for you, sweetheart," the woman replied with a kind smile.
Thanking her once more, I left the clinic, heading the same way House and Dr. Cuddy had gone not long before me.
Almost reaching the diagnostics lounge, in one of the hospital hallways, I ran into Dr. Cuddy walking visibly annoyed in the opposite direction—probably back to her office.
Stopping in front of me, "PJ, please make him wear his lab coat," she said, and before I could refuse or anything else, offering a small smile, she continued on her way.
"How exactly am I supposed to do that?" I muttered sarcastically to myself before continuing on.
When I reached House's office, I debated for about two seconds whether to try convincing him—or at least suggesting—that he wear his coat. The next second, I snorted and pushed the door open without bothering. No need.
House was inside, sitting with his feet up on his desk.
Seeing me enter, "Give me your notebook," he said, stretching out his hand.
Surprised—since it had been a while since we'd reviewed my observation notebook—"Sure," I replied, moving to where my backpack was hanging.
From my backpack, I pulled out the notebook, nearly full of notes on the 'cases' I observed in my daily life. Writing in it had quickly become part of my nightly routine before bed.
Catching the notebook I tossed to him, "Let's see," House murmured, leaning back in his chair as he started reading. "This one's interesting—man in his forties, clear signs of retinal damage in the right eye, and nasal malformation from neglect," he read pompously, raising an eyebrow and snorting as if my wording was pretentious.
Taking a second to think (while ignoring House's attitude as usual), I remembered the case—one of Mr. Sanchez's gym assistants. Like him, most of the recent entries were about people I'd observed during the trip.
I knew House had left out details from what he'd read—it was part of the test. "Left hand tremors, avoids direct light, chews gum like it's his job," I said, recalling the rest of the notes.
"Diagnosis?" House asked, still focused on the notebook.
"In any normal person his age, I'd immediately think early-stage Parkinson's," I answered right away, making House nod. "But the guy was clearly a regular at a local boxing gym. Everything can be explained by untreated trauma damage," I concluded.
"Yeah so, boring," House declared, flipping the page with a snort.
Like that, House quizzed me on many of the cases I'd noted—from a waitress at the steakhouse we'd gone to the first night, to one of the moms at the kids' Jiu-Jitsu gym, who clearly took off her wedding ring when entering.
A while later, after discussing at least a dozen observations, House's pager went off, interrupting the exercise.
"What?" I asked.
"Your siblings are on their way," House declared, closing my notebook and tossing it onto his desk.
"So, not a clot," I said, taking my notebook and leaning back in the chair.
"Wow, you figured that out all by yourself?" House asked, feigning surprise.
Ignoring his act, I closed my eyes, thinking of different theories for the new patient's diagnosis.
A couple of minutes later, House's pager went off again. "Come on," he said, standing up.
In the previously empty lounge, the rest of the diagnostics team had now gathered.
"You get any read on the new chairman of the board?" Chase asked when House and I entered.
"Yeah, he took your parking spot," Dr. Foreman joked.
"It's not necessarily bad news," Cameron said, clearly not knowing what she was talking about.
"I met the guy, and I can assure you it's not good news either," I declared, sitting at the table, making Chase raise his eyebrows.
"Well, I think we should introduce ourselves," Cameron said, still hopeful. "It couldn't hurt."
Before Chase or Foreman—who seemed immediately interested after my words—could ask anything, "Didn't you hear the kid?" House asked, sounding puzzled. "He hurt his ego. You should be careful," he declared with exaggerated sympathy. "Now, we have a patient with a ten on the pain scale. What would explain that?" he asked seriously.
Confused by House's statement, no one answered for a few seconds.
After studying my face for a moment, finally, "There was no clot in her leg," Chase responded. "The angio was totally clean."
"What about the muscle biopsy?" I asked, focusing on the case.
"No neurogenic or myopathic abnormalities," Chase replied calmly.
And surprisingly, "She was also negative for trichinosis. No toxoplasmosis or polyarteritis nodosa," Dr. Foreman added, making eye contact and speaking without a trace of disdain.
"Robert, what was her sedimentation rate?" Cameron asked, immediately pulling my attention from Foreman.
Confused, I glanced between Cameron and Chase, noticing how Chase also seemed surprised by the sudden use of his first name.
"Normal, Allison," Chase answered, frowning. "Therefore, no inflammation, no immunologic response."
"Do you mind sharing that number with me?" Cameron asked, continuing whatever psychological tactic she was using.
"Fifteen, Allison," Chase replied mockingly.
"Are you mocking me?" Cameron asked, offended.
"Duh, Allison," Foreman said with a snort.
"I'm just suggesting we look outside the box," Cameron defended herself, exasperated. "What if her sed rate is elevated?" she asked.
There were certainly many factors that determined a person's sed rate—gender, age, and other conditions. Generally, women had a higher sed rate than men of the same age. But there was no evidence suggesting that in this specific case, it was higher than it should be.
"Well, let's go further outside the box," Chase said sarcastically. "Let's say the angio revealed a clot, and then let's say we treated that clot, and now she's all better and personally thanked me by performing—" he quickly continued.
"My Aunt Elyssa lives in Philadelphia," Cameron interrupted, frustrated.
"Oh, it's story time," House exclaimed, falsely excited. "Let me get my baba," he added with sickening sweetness.
Rolling her eyes, exasperated, "Her normal temperature is 96.2, not 98.6 like you and me," Cameron said. "If her temperature were 98.6, she'd have a fever," she continued. "I'm just wondering if you think we could apply the same logic to Carly's sed rate."
It was a pretty risky assumption, but knowing House, I knew he'd love the theory.
"It's absurd," House said with a frown, "I love it," he declared a second later, smiling with his eyebrows raised.
I knew it.
"If 15 is high for Carly, then she has inflammation," Cameron said, smiling.
"Which could, in turn, mean cancer," House continued. "I'll talk to Wilson," he added, starting to leave the room. "Next time, skip Aunt Elyssa," he told Cameron, pausing at the office door before exiting.
Once House was out of sight, smiling amusedly "So, what's with 'Robert'?" I asked Cameron, emphasizing Chase's name.
"House says it's from some sort of negotiation book," Chase said with a snort.
"Ah yeah, soft positional bargaining," I said, snapping my fingers a couple seconds later as I remembered the term from one of the books House had me read. "Please don't start calling me Patrick," I added, begging softly.
"Don't challenge me, or I might," Cameron said, rolling her eyes as she dragged a chair to sit down. "What happened to your face?" she asked softly. "Did you get in another fight?"
"Kind of," I responded, nodding. "Over the weekend I went out with people from my gym to do sparring matches with other gyms," I explained easily, making all three doctors raise their eyebrows. "I took a few punches, but nothing serious," I assure smiling softly, touching the side of my face where a bruise was already fading. "It was worth it."
There was a brief pause where no one seemed entirely sure whether to be impressed or concerned.
"More importantly, did you meet the new chairman?" Chase asked, finally breaking the silence, clearly more interested in hospital gossip than my extracurricular bruises.
"Yes, Dr. Cuddy introduced me when I arrived at the hospital," I replied, puffing my cheeks slightly with raised eyebrows.
"The perks of being a prodigy, huh?" Chase asked sarcastically.
"I bet Dr. Cuddy planned to introduce you to him days ago," Cameron said, smiling. "Definitely showing off."
"Yeah well, whatever her plan was, I don't think it worked out how she expected," I said, raising my eyebrows. "I don't think I impressed the man."
"Really?" Chase asked. "You didn't impress him?" he added with exaggerated surprise.
"The man made it clear he thinks I waste hospital resources," I said.
"Is that why you said it wasn't good news?" Dr. Foreman asked, slightly frowning.
"To be honest, yes, but also the nurses think he has bad intentions," I explained. "And I think they're right," I added seriously.
---
Author Thoughts:
As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin and not McLovin.
Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:
11332223
RandomPasserby96
Victor_Venegas
I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.
Thank you for reading! :D
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