Thatcher Grey's blood was the exact shade of "wrong" that Christopher had seen in a dozen future episodes, but the tools in his hands were primitive by comparison. The year was 2005, and he was looking at a 2020-level catastrophe.
"Scalpel," Christopher snapped. His voice didn't shake. It was the only thing in the room that was stable.
"Wright, what are you doing?" Bailey hissed, her hands busy trying to keep Thatcher's abdominal aorta from becoming a fountain. "We need to stabilize and get him to the OR. You don't start a carotid repair in a trauma bay."
"He doesn't have five minutes for the elevator, Miranda. He has ninety seconds of oxygenated blood left in his brain," Christopher said, his mind racing through surgical journals that wouldn't be written for another fifteen years.
He didn't just perform a standard repair. He bypassed the traditional suturing method, utilizing a tension-free, multi-layered anastomosis technique he'd "read" about—well, would read about—in a 2018 New England Journal of Medicine article. His fingers moved with a terrifying, fluid grace, ignoring the standard protocols of the era.
Nick Marsh stepped closer, his shadow falling over the gurney. "That's a bold angle, Wright. You're skipping the proximal control."
"Control is an illusion," Christopher retorted, his sarcasm sharpening with the adrenaline. "I'm opting for survival. Catch up, Dr. Marsh."
Meredith Grey appeared at the edge of the trauma bay, her face pale. She didn't recognize the man on the table—not yet. She just saw a patient dying. Christopher looked up for a fraction of a second, seeing the woman who was supposed to have years to reconcile with this man. If he failed now, that entire character arc was deleted.
"Suction," he commanded. He used a modified Shunt-and-Stitch maneuver, a technique that wouldn't be popularized until the mid-2010s.
The monitors slowed their frantic screaming. The rhythm stabilized. The "impossible" repair held.
Bailey stared at the site, her eyes wide behind her mask. "Where did you learn to move like that? That wasn't in any textbook I've seen."
"I have very vivid dreams, Miranda," Christopher said, stepping back and stripping his bloody gloves. "And I'm a very fast learner."
He walked out of the bay, the metallic scent of blood clinging to his scrub top. He needed air. The timeline was a shattered mirror, and he was the one holding the jagged pieces. He headed for the roof—the classic Seattle Grace sanctuary for brooding.
He wasn't alone. Nick Marsh was leaning against the railing, a smirk playing on his lips that suggested he knew exactly how much of a freak Christopher was.
"That wasn't just 'good' surgery, Christopher," Nick said, dropping the formal title. "That was... precocious. Like you knew exactly where the vessel was going to tear before it did."
"I'm just that good," Christopher replied, leaning next to him, his heart still hammering against his ribs. "But don't tell the Chief. He'll want me to give a lecture, and I'm already over-scheduled."
"I think you're a lot of things," Nick murmured, stepping into Christopher's personal space, the tension between them shifting from professional to something dangerously electric. "But I don't think 'lucky' is one of them. You're playing a different game than everyone else in this building."
Christopher opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark, but his pager went off. It wasn't a trauma code. It was a private message from an internal hospital line.
I know you're not supposed to be here yet either.
Christopher's blood turned to ice. He looked down at the screen, then back at Nick. But Nick wasn't looking at his pager. He was looking at the door, where Addison Montgomery was walking toward them, years before she was supposed to arrive to ruin Derek and Meredith's life.