The man Christopher nearly leveled was Preston Burke, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was the man standing behind Burke—a tall, rugged trauma surgeon with a face that belonged in a 1940s war film.
Christopher froze. That was Nick Marsh. Or a hauntingly accurate doppelganger. According to the "script," Nick wasn't supposed to appear for another decade, yet here he was, wearing a visiting consultant's badge. The timeline wasn't just leaking; it was hemorrhaging.
"Watch it, Wright," Burke muttered, though his eyes remained fixed on the trauma bay. "Dr. Marsh is here from Mayo to consult on the donor lungs. Try to keep your prodigy-attitude in check for at least an hour."
Christopher recovered his composure, his internal monologue shifting from shock to sharp calculation. "I'll try to dim my brilliance so he doesn't need sunglasses, Preston. No promises."
He turned his gaze to Nick. The man who would eventually be Meredith's "endgame" was currently staring at a chart, looking significantly younger and dangerously handsome. Christopher felt a flicker of genuine interest—a rare occurrence in a building full of people he'd already "read."
"Dr. Wright," Nick said, extending a hand. His voice was a low, sandpaper growl. "I've heard you're the only person in this zip code who can re-map a brain and repair a mitral valve in the same afternoon."
"I also make a mean espresso, but let's stick to the surgery for now," Christopher replied, his sarcasm acting as a shield. "What brings a Minnesota transplant to our rainy little purgatory ahead of schedule?"
Nick tilted his head, a curious smirk tugging at his mouth. "Ahead of schedule? I didn't know I was expected."
"You weren't," Christopher said pointedly. "Not for a long time."
Before Nick could push for an explanation, the sirens wailed. Two ambulances screeched into the bay. This was the Katie Bryce intake—the pageant girl with the subarachnoid hemorrhage. Christopher watched as Meredith and Cristina scrambled toward the gurney, their desperation to impress Shepherd and Burke almost palpable.
Christopher stayed back, watching the scene unfold with a detached, chilling clarity. He knew Derek would find the aneurysm. He knew Meredith would find the "spark." But his eyes kept drifting back to Nick Marsh, who was watching him instead of the trauma.
"You're not jumping in?" Nick asked, leaning against the ambulance bay doors.
"I know how this ends," Christopher said, the irony tasting like copper in his mouth. "The girl lives, the interns cry, and the hero gets the girl. I have a more interesting case in OR 3."
He turned to leave, but the sight in the second ambulance stopped his heart. It wasn't just a random car crash victim. The man on the gurney was Thatcher Grey.
Meredith's father was bleeding out ten years too early for this specific medical crisis. The "plot" hadn't just shifted; it had fractured. Christopher realized with a jolt of adrenaline that his knowledge was no longer a guidebook—it was a list of lies.
"Wright!" Bailey barked, her hands deep in Thatcher's chest. "Stop looking like a statue and get in here! He's throwing a PE and his carotid is shredded!"
Christopher stepped forward, the grounded reality of the blood and the beeping monitors snapping his focus into place. If Thatcher died now, Lexie might never arrive. The sisters would never bond. The future was collapsing.
As he reached for the scalpel, he caught Nick Marsh watching him with an expression that wasn't just professional—it was hungry.
"Let's see if the legend is true," Nick murmured.