Medical Center
Before Cristina could even think about cheering up her bestie, the Chief of Surgery's third blow landed—right on her.
Operating Room
The Chief, Dr. Dixon, and Cristina were mid-surgery.
"I see a tear in the renal artery," the Chief said, hands busy. "Yang, you familiar with single-layer vascular suturing?"
"Yes, sir, of course," Cristina replied, brimming with confidence.
"BP's still dropping."
"Max dose of epinephrine—keep the transfusion going."
"Suture here, Yang!" the Chief barked.
"Yang, how's it going over there?"
"I can't get it—it won't close!" Cristina's voice spiked with panic. "It's tearing open here!"
"Damn it, Yang, move!" the Chief snapped. "Didn't you say you've sutured wounds like this?"
"I have—hundreds of times!" Cristina stammered, dazed.
"On hearts," Dr. Dixon cut in, glancing at her from across the table, where she was handling the cardiac side.
"…Yeah," Cristina faltered.
"Your forceps nicked the tissue," Dixon said, eyes back on the wound. "You're holding the intestine wrong. You're too fixated on the heart—great.
But blood from the heart flows everywhere. You need solid general surgery basics before you can specialize in it.
Your foundational skills? Subpar.
Right now, you don't deserve to focus on hearts."
Cristina had no comeback.
Adam had drilled this into her more than once.
Sure, she'd put some time into non-cardiac surgeries to shore up her basics—but her heart wasn't in it.
With her laser focus on cardio and a top-tier fiancé like Burke grooming her, she was already holding her own in cardiothoracic cases.
One lead surgery away from her dream.
But now? Another cardio legend shot her down—right in front of the Chief, who was itching to make an example out of someone.
Worst part? It was all true.
Dixon's blunt honesty was infamous—she didn't lie.
And after the shock wore off, Cristina knew Dixon was right.
She'd instinctively treated that renal artery tear like a cardiac one.
Different tissues, different moves—she'd botched it.
Ignorance and weakness don't kill you. Arrogance does.
Her pride nearly tanked a patient.
Even the dawn of the millennium couldn't shake the tension choking the Medical Center.
---
New Year's Day
Hospital Conference Room
Every surgeon was packed in.
Cristina slouched next to Adam, no snacks or drinks in hand—unusual for her seminar prep.
Beside her, Meredith slumped, equally drained.
Next to Meredith? A deflated Devil Sadie.
Adam scanned the trio, smirking to himself.
Lately, the Chief had been name-dropping him left and right.
Back in the day, Adam would've told him to cut it out—too much hate bait.
But he'd leveled up too fast. That Lancet cover article capped off his pre-2000 run perfectly.
Now, when the Chief leaned on his name, no one dared resent him.
He was too far above that petty vibe.
Plus, like the Chief, he wasn't thrilled about the Medical Center landing fourth.
If the Chief hadn't blown up, Adam would've anyway—especially once he took over as Chief Resident post-New Year, ready to shake things up.
The Chief's meltdown just saved him some legwork.
And it was a perfect opener.
The hospital's overall teaching game was lagging—everyone but Adam owned that failure.
Even Chief Resident Callie wasn't off the hook.
She'd dropped the ball on backing the Chief and running the show.
When the time was right, Adam stepping in would feel natural.
"Everyone's busy, so I'll keep it short," the Chief said, striding in and taking the stage, his face a blank slate as he scanned the room.
"We're a top-tier U.S. teaching hospital. This year, Dr. Duncan's been a supernova—cruise ship rescue on live TV, the glioma virus breakthrough.
Then we brought in heavy hitters: Dr. Shepherd, Dr. Montgomery, Dr. Dixon, Dr. Sloan—elite talent.
We had every right to claim #1.
But not only did we miss it, we didn't even crack the top three.
Fourth?
Fourth?!
What a humiliating number!
Ask yourselves: do you want to work at the #1 teaching hospital in the country—or the fourth?
We're surgeons.
Our DNA screams 'first place!'
It's January 1st—Millennium Day 1. The perfect reset.
So I called this meeting to deliver one message: this year, we take the crown.
Everyone's pitching in.
I'll keep recruiting top docs, twist the board's arm for cash to snag cutting-edge gear, and boost our firepower.
And you lot?
I need you to teach with passion, learn with passion.
You've been dodging general surgery like it's beneath you—too obsessed with hearts and brains.
As if heart blood doesn't flow everywhere, or nerves don't hit the brainstem.
Your skills are half-baked, foundations shaky—your medicine's boxed in.
No more.
I'm overhauling the training program.
Some rules are new, some are getting teeth.
First-year interns, second-year first-level residents, third-year second-level residents—you're banned from specialty clinical research.
You're getting full-spectrum surgical training.
Personal ties and preferences? Out of the equation.
Mentors, you're spreading knowledge evenly—no favoritism…"
The Chief's speech hit everyone—mentors, interns, residents—except Adam, Dixon, and a few others.
Eyes darted around, guilty vibes bouncing.
Adam's four protégés showed it all:
George gave a wry chuckle.
Lexie shot a worried glance at her half-sister, the new poster child.
Melendez stayed cool and unbothered.
Carter smirked, glancing around, smug as hell.
The ones who used to rag on Adam's crew for "working too hard" or "sucking up"? Faces drooping.
The Chief's new rules basically mirrored Adam's playbook.
Sure, they didn't go full throttle—couldn't axe the big-shot docs' love lives—but compared to the old days, everyone's nerves were about to snap.
Slack off now, and the fallout wouldn't just be the usual five burnouts or two dropouts.
Wiping out the whole intern class and starting fresh? Not off the table.
This millennium? Rough days ahead.
(Chapter End)