The surgical skills lab smelled of latex, cold steel, and the desperate ambition of Cristina Yang. She stood over a synthetic cadaver, her eyes narrowed into predatory slits. Around her, the other interns hovered like spectators at a Roman colosseum.
"A pericardiocentesis on O'Malley is a fluke, Wright," Cristina stated, her voice echoing in the sterile room. "You're a prodigy, sure. But speed and 'intuition' aren't the same as technical mastery. I bet I can complete a double-vessel micro-anastomosis faster and cleaner than you. If I win, you tell me how you 'know' things. If you win... I'll do your scut for a week."
Christopher leaned against a tool cart, his posture a masterclass in nonchalance. He didn't even look at the operating microscope.
"A week of scut from you, Cristina? I'd spend more time fixing your mistakes than actually relaxing," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm cutting through the room's tension. "But fine. I'm bored, and watching you fail sounds more entertaining than my lunch."
The challenge was simple: suture a 2mm synthetic artery under the scope. It required the steadiness of a diamond cutter and the patience of a saint.
Cristina went first. Her hands were precise, her movements aggressive. She was a machine, a shark in scrubs. She finished in three minutes and forty-two seconds—a record for a first-year resident.
"Beat that, 007-maker," she challenged, stepping back with a smirk.
Christopher didn't sit down. He didn't even adjust the chair. He stepped up to the scope, grabbed the Castroviejo needle holder, and looked through the lenses.
I've done this in the dark during a hospital blackout in season six, he thought, his mental Grey's Anatomy archive flickering. I could do this in my sleep.
His hands moved. They weren't aggressive like Cristina's; they were fluid, almost musical. He didn't look like he was suturing; he looked like he was weaving silk. The needle danced through the intima and media with a terrifying, effortless speed.
One minute. Two minutes.
"Done," Christopher said, stepping back and dropping the tool.
The interns crowded around the monitor. The anastomosis was perfect. Not a single jagged edge. Not a single microscopic leak. It was a work of art.
Two minutes and twelve seconds.
Cristina's face went from smug to a ghostly, hollow pale. She stared at the screen, her mouth slightly agape. She had been humiliated in her own arena, by a twenty-one-year-old who hadn't even broken a sweat.
"You... you missed the adventitia on the back wall," she stammered, desperate to find a flaw.
"I didn't, Cristina. I just bypassed it to ensure a smoother laminar flow," Christopher said, his voice dropping into a cold, sharp whisper as he leaned into her personal space. "Stick to the textbooks, Yang. I'm writing the new ones. And I expect my post-op charts on my desk by 5 PM. Don't forget the ICD-10 codes."
He walked out of the lab, his lab coat billowing behind him like a cape. He felt a surge of unadulterated power. He had just crushed the hospital's most competitive resident, and he felt... great.
His phone buzzed. A text from Jack: "I'm at the bar. Joe says you're officially a 'legend' now. I hope your ego hasn't grown too big to fit through the door."
Christopher smiled, a genuine, unscripted expression. "It's a tight fit, Jack," he murmured, heading for the exit.
But as he reached the lobby, he saw Izzie Stevens crying near the elevators. He recognized the look. He recognized the day.
The LVAD wire, he thought, his heart sinking. Denny Duquette.