Medical Center. Outside the Ward.
Christina stood with her arms crossed, smirking as she watched the show unfold.
Major Hunt, the urban soldier king and military doctor, caught her out of the corner of his eye and got even more fired up. He laid into Dr. Shepherd, who was listening with a stone-cold expression. "Your academic knowledge could use an update…"
Nearby, Callie, the chief resident in orthopedics, couldn't help but chime in. "There was this case once where a guy trampled by a bison got frozen and was cured."
Dr. Shepherd shot Callie a look before turning to the soldier king in front of him. "That bison case? The patient was 20, with a strong heart.
Our patient here is 60, and his heart's already on its last legs. I'd like him to live long enough to see his grandkids!"
With that, he didn't even bother looking at Hunt's rugged face anymore. He turned to Callie. "Dr. Torres, book an OR.
And tell the patient that despite Uncle Sam's theories"—he nodded toward the soldier—"cryotherapy isn't an option here."
Then he strode off.
"Why didn't you keep arguing with him?" Christina asked, sounding disappointed.
"…"
Major Hunt, the soldier king and military doctor, felt that familiar pang of frustration again.
This cryotherapy thing? He'd only read about it in a case study—never actually done it himself. If the other guy didn't know that, he could've bluffed his way through.
But Dr. Shepherd clearly knew his stuff and was laying out cold, hard facts. Cases like that were rare, and the successful ones always involved young, healthy patients.
What else could he say? If he kept going, he wouldn't just lose the argument—he'd get exposed and roasted instead.
He glanced at Christina. This woman kept getting under his skin, and he was starting to wonder if she was doing it on purpose.
But then he saw that genuine disappointment in her eyes. Maybe she was just one of those super-driven, fiercely curious independent women. And just like that, his heart skipped a beat again.
Emmm.
Damn it, this woman was something else.
She was the total opposite of his sweet, obedient, homemaker-type fiancée.
On his way home, he'd stumbled into a car accident, ended up here, and met her. Maybe it was God's plan all along.
"Tell me about this cryotherapy thing," Callie said, stopping him as he watched Christina walk away. He'd been about to follow her—he wanted more time with her—but Callie's voice pulled him back.
Oh, yeah!
She was hooked.
Ever since Adam made waves with his groundbreaking clinical research, a fever for clinical studies had quietly taken over the medical center.
Even Mark Sloan from plastics had toned down his playboy ways lately. In his spare time, he was glued to his computer, scouring the latest industry updates, hunting for a research direction to land a big project and prove himself.
That's why the surgical chief had recently made a new rule: low-year residents couldn't join clinical research—they had to focus on surgical training.
It made sense for attending physicians to dive into clinical work; the chief welcomed that. But if residents who were still learning to walk started sprinting ahead without focus, the medical center would trip over itself fast.
Senior residents, though? They basically had attending-level skills. As long as it didn't delay their licensing, a clinical research project was fair game.
Callie, the chief resident in orthopedics, was one of those senior residents. She had the qualifications and the drive.
So when she heard Hunt mention cryotherapy, she couldn't help but back him up—Dr. Shepherd's opinion be damned.
"Alright," Hunt said. He watched Christina's retreating figure, resisting the urge to tail her, and turned to explain his take on the theoretical treatment to Callie.
"I'm going to talk to the chief," Callie said, her eyes lighting up. She brushed past Dr. Shepherd's authority and bolted off to find the surgical chief.
She wanted to perform this surgery.
There were only two successful cases worldwide: the original one and another at Mass General. This was résumé gold.
Major Hunt, the urban soldier king and military doctor, breathed a sigh of relief. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he went looking for Christina.
Maybe this really was God's will.
Using the bits of recon skills he'd picked up on the battlefield, he made his way to the ER entrance. Hiding in the shadows, he watched Christina chatting with her bestie, Meredith, outside the ER. Then, out of nowhere, it happened.
The ground was slick, and Christina slipped, crashing down. As she rubbed her head and started to get up, a massive icicle fell from above and stabbed right into her.
"Oh my God," Meredith gasped, stunned. Then she bolted toward the hospital. "Don't move—I'm getting help!"
"Oh my God," Hunt muttered under his breath, echoing her. He ducked out of sight, waiting for Meredith to pass. Then he stepped out, looming over Christina as she lay there, dazed and in pain. A grin tugged at his lips despite himself.
"Lady in distress," he said, like some kind of knight. He scooped her up and carried her toward the ER.
Thank you, God.
An insane accident like this, happening right in front of him? If that wasn't divine intervention, he didn't know what was.
After all, without Satan, what use was God? In a peaceful world, where would superheroes get their chance to shine?
Same deal here.
A soldier king returns to the city—if God didn't whip up some jaw-dropping chaos, his homecoming would just be a big, fat nothing.
Once they reached the ER ward, Christina snapped out of the cosmic joke God had just played on her. She regained her cool and started self-diagnosing.
"It's between my 9th and 10th ribs. No bleeding, no pneumothorax, vitals are stable—just pull it out."
"No way!" Meredith rushed in with a nurse, hooking Christina up to a monitor and grabbing a portable chest X-ray machine to take a scan.
Christina's interns, who'd been suffering under her for ages, seized the moment. They crowded around, snapping pics for posterity—perfect for phone wallpapers. Nothing like seeing their tough boss in pain to kick off the day with a smile.
"What are you doing?" Christina barked, shooing the interns away. Then she spotted Hunt walking in. He slipped on gloves, leaned in close—his breath practically mingling with hers—and stared her down like he was about to plant one on her. She scowled. "What the hell—"
Before she could yell "pervert," Hunt yanked the icicle out.
"I didn't say you could pull it!" Christina snapped, glaring at the bloody icicle in his hand.
"So?" Major Hunt, urban soldier king and military doctor, now brimming with God-given courage, slipped back into his signature cool-guy mode.
He tilted his head slightly, his expression all laid-back and rebellious, radiating the swagger God had apparently bestowed upon him.
"So?" Christina shot back. "So you shouldn't have done that! Are you sure you're a military doctor?
On the battlefield, is that how you operate—no discipline at all?
Just doing whatever you want without asking the patient?
Oh, wait, my bad—I forgot.
That's exactly how you roll!"
Major Hunt, urban soldier king and military doctor: "…"
(End of Chapter)