The fluorescent hum of the surgical floor felt like a migraine in waiting. Christopher intercepted Meredith Grey near the blood bank, her arms laden with IV bags and the weight of her sisterhood crisis.
"Grey," Christopher said, his voice a clinical razor. "Drop the bags. I have a status update for you, and I'd prefer you didn't hear it from the hospital grapevine."
Meredith stopped, her brow furrowed. "If this is about Lexie wanting to buy me a housewarming plant, I'm already over it."
"It's about Thatcher," Christopher interrupted, leaning against the stainless steel counter. "I've flagged him for early-stage hepatic insufficiency. He's on a regimen of lactulose and strict sobriety. If he sticks to it, he won't need a transplant. Which means you won't have to donate a lobe of your liver in six months."
Meredith stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. "You... you're treating my father? Why?"
"Because surgical martyrs are boring, Meredith," Christopher drawled, pushing off the counter. "And I have a low tolerance for preventable tragedies. Don't thank me. It's purely selfish; I want you in the OR, not on a recovery bed."
He left her standing in a stunned silence and headed straight for Canlis.
Jack was waiting at their usual corner table, looking dangerously handsome in a charcoal bespoke suit. He didn't say a word until the scotch arrived.
"The Oracle has been busy," Jack remarked, his blue eyes searching Christopher's. "I heard about Thatcher Grey. You're moving pieces on a board I can't see, Christopher. Why him? Why now?"
Christopher swirled the amber liquid, watching the ice crystal melt. The urge to confess was a physical ache, but the timeline was a glass house.
"I can't tell you right now, Jack," Christopher said, his voice dropping into a hushed monotone. "Not because I don't trust you, but because the architecture of what I know is... volatile. Just know that if I don't intervene, people bleed. And I've seen enough blood for three lifetimes."
Jack reached across the table, his hand covering Christopher's surgical fingers. "You're terrified, aren't you? Even with all that arrogance."
"I'm calculating," Christopher corrected, a sharp smirk returning. "But yes, even gods get vertigo."
They sat in a comfortable silence, the Seattle skyline a blurred neon backdrop. Christopher felt the script shivering. He had deflected Meredith and stalled Jack, but the bomb in the chest cavity was coming. And that was a chapter he couldn't edit from a distance.