The Chief's office was bathed in the amber glow of a Seattle sunset, but the atmosphere inside was permafrost. Richard Webber was staring at a stack of incident reports—the ambulance crash, the REBOA in the oil spill, and now the miraculous survival of Dylan Young.
Christopher didn't knock. He walked in, his Tom Ford loafers silent on the hardwood, and sat across from Richard without an invitation.
"I hear the nurses' station has a betting pool on my astrological sign," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm as dry as autoclaved linen. "Apparently, I'm the '[Oracle of Seattle Grace]'. It's a bit theatrical, don't you think? I would have preferred 'The [Surgical Inevitability]'. It has a better cadence."
Richard looked up, his brow deeply furrowed. "You predicted the explosion radius, Christopher. You staged lead shields before the bomb squad even gave the all-clear. People are scared. They think you're either a genius or a security risk."
"I'm a triple-board certified prodigy with severe insomnia and a photographic memory for structural blueprints," Christopher said, leaning forward, his voice dropping into a low, lethal hum. "Let's say, for the sake of your paranoia, that I am an oracle. What are the negative consequences, Richard?"
He ticked them off on his surgical fingers. "Stan Giamatti is going home to his wife. Dylan Young has an arm instead of a memorial plaque. Meredith Grey is breathing instead of drowning. Your mortality rates are plummeting, and your insurance premiums are finally stabilizing."
"The universe has a way of balancing the scales, Christopher," Richard whispered.
"Then let the universe send me a bill," Christopher snapped, standing up. "Until then, I suggest you stop interrogating the man who is keeping your hospital from becoming a cemetery. If being 'The [Oracle]' means I save lives while you debate ethics, then I'll take the voodoo label and a corner office."
He walked out of the office, the click of his heels echoing like a metronome. He had put the rumors to rest by owning them. He didn't care if they whispered, as long as they stayed out of his way.
He reached the lobby and saw Jack leaning against a structural pillar, looking like a GQ spread in the middle of a trauma ward.
"The Chief look convinced?" Jack asked, handing Christopher a leather-bound file.
"The Chief looks like he's waiting for a lightning bolt," Christopher said, a genuine smirk touching his lips. "But I told him I'm too busy for divination. What's in the file?"
"A property deed," Jack whispered, pulling him closer. "I think it's time you had a sanctuary that doesn't smell like antiseptic."