Christopher didn't even look up from the scrub sink. He continued to lather his hands with Betadine, the rhythmic scritch-scratch of the brush the only sound in the tense silence.
"Close the door, Isobel," he said, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of lethal calm.
"I—I have to call the Chief," Izzie stammered, her hand trembling on the door handle. "This isn't authorized. And who is he? Why is he cutting on a fellow intern?"
"If you open your mouth, the only thing people will be talking about tomorrow isn't this surgery," Christopher said, finally turning to face her. He shook the excess water from his hands, his eyes pinning her to the spot. "They'll be talking about the 'Bethany Whisper' spreads. Specifically the one involving the red lingerie and the questionable lighting."
Izzie went deathly still. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking like a ghost in scrubs. "How... how do you know about that? I haven't told anyone here. Not even Meredith."
"I know everything, Isobel. I know you paid for med school with those photos. I know you're terrified that these 'serious' surgeons will look at you and see a centerpiece instead of a doctor," Christopher said, stepping into the OR and letting DeLuca tie his gown. He leaned in, his voice a sharp, dry whisper. "Now, you can either go out there and be the girl who blew the whistle on a life-saving surgery, or you can stay here, hold a retractor, and keep your secret. Because if you breathe a word of this, I will have those photos pinned to every bulletin board from the clinic to the morgue by the 6:00 AM shift change."
It was cruel. It was cold. It was exactly what was necessary to keep the timeline from collapsing further.
"You're a monster," Izzie whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of fury.
"I'm a surgeon," Christopher corrected, his sarcasm returning like a blunt instrument. "And currently, I'm the only thing standing between Cristina and a body bag. Grab a mask or get out. But choose quickly; her BP is dipping."
Izzie stood frozen for three seconds before she grabbed a surgical mask, her movements jerky and resentful. She stepped up to the table, her hands shaking as she took the retractor from DeLuca.
"Good choice," DeLuca muttered, though he shot Christopher a look of profound discomfort. "We're almost through. The rupture was clean, but the clotting is... strange. It's like the blood is trying to evaporate."
Christopher frowned, leaning over the field. He'd seen a thousand surgeries, but the way Cristina's tissue was reacting wasn't in any textbook—past, present, or future. "It's the ripple. The reality of this moment is fighting the change."
As he moved to clamp the bleeder, the lights in the OR flickered violently. A low, rhythmic thumping began to vibrate through the floorboards—not the sound of machinery, but the sound of a heavy, measured footfall approaching the door.
The door didn't open. Instead, a voice came through the intercom—a voice that shouldn't have been in Seattle for years.
"Dr. Wright," the voice of Ellis Grey crackled over the speaker, sharp and lucid, despite the fact that she was currently supposed to be lost to Alzheimer's in a nursing home. "You're making a mess of my daughter's best friend. Shall I come in and show you how a real surgeon handles a temporal bleed?"