The room was a frantic mess of tangled tubing and the rhythmic, hollow thud of chest compressions. Meredith was pale, her hands shaking as she tried to maintain the airway.
"I—I don't know what happened," Meredith stammered, her voice thin. "He was stable, then he just..."
"Pulmonary embolism," Christopher said, his voice a cool blade that sliced through the panic. "I told you earlier to watch his vitals for a reason, Grey. You were looking for the obvious; you missed the subtle."
He didn't wait for her to respond. He pushed the tPA with a steady hand, his eyes fixed on the monitor. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't throwing instruments. He moved with a terrifyingly calm efficiency that made the surrounding nurses stop their own frantic movements to simply watch him.
Within minutes, the jagged, dying rhythm on the EKG began to smooth out. The blue tint left the patient's lips, replaced by a faint, living pink.
"He's back," a nurse whispered, letting out a breath she'd been holding.
Christopher didn't celebrate. He didn't even look relieved. He simply checked the patient's pupils, adjusted the oxygen flow, and stepped back. He looked at Meredith, who was staring at the man as if he had just risen from the dead.
"Write the notes, Dr. Grey," Christopher said, his tone flat. "And this time, try to record what actually happened, not just your surprise that he survived."
He turned on his heel and walked out before she could thank him, or worse, ask him how he'd known to run across the street at that exact moment. He didn't want the credit. In this timeline, a quiet win was better than a loud one. If he made too much noise, the Chief would start digging, and Derek would start questioning.
As he walked down the quiet hallway of the ICU, the adrenaline finally began to ebb, leaving behind a dull ache in his shoulders. He reached into his pocket and felt the phantom weight of his phone.
Jack.
He pulled the device out. There were no messages yet. Of course not; he had given the man a napkin and disappeared like a fugitive. Jack Brady was likely still sitting at the bar, wondering if he'd just met a brilliant consultant or a very well-dressed lunatic.
Christopher leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, looking out at the Seattle skyline. He was twenty-one years old. He had the heart of a jaded old man and the secrets of a hundred lives he hadn't lived yet.
For the first time, the "plot" felt less like a script and more like a cage. Except for Jack. Jack wasn't in the script. Jack was a glitch in the system, and for the first time in either of his lives, Christopher found himself hoping the glitch would stay.
He felt a presence behind him and didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The scent of lavender and authority gave her away.
"You're making a habit of being in the right place at the wrong time, Wright," Dr. Bailey said, leaning against the wall beside him.
"It's a gift, Miranda," he replied, not taking his eyes off the city. "Or a curse. I haven't decided yet."
"Whatever it is, keep it to yourself for a while," she advised, her voice surprisingly soft. "The other residents are already sharpened their knives. You're the boy king, and they're all looking for a revolution."
"Let them try," Christopher said, a sharp, sarcastic glint returning to his eyes. "I've already seen how that story ends."