Kiyotaka – POV
Morning in Seattle tasted like rain and cheap soap.
I stepped out of the shower, wiped a circle in the fogged bathroom mirror, and met my own eyes.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair pushed back and still damp. White shirt clinging just enough to show the definition I'd earned partly from exercise, partly from stress. Black pants, belt sitting just right on my hips. I looked like the hospital hottie medical dramas kept inventing—but with a brain that could actually back it up.
"Not bad," I muttered. "Let's try not to die this time."
The scrubs hanging on the hook beside the mirror were standard Seattle Grace blue: T‑shirt, pants, fresh, stiff, smelling faintly of starch. I folded them carefully and set them in my bag. First impression: white shirt and black pants under the coat. Scrubs later, when the blood showed up.
In the main room—if you could call it that—my apartment looked as small as it felt.
Single bed, metal frame.
Tiny wardrobe with two white coats and three shirts.
Worn table with a stack of medical books like a shrine.
One chair, one backpack, one life packed into too little space.
I locked the door behind me and jogged down the narrow stairwell, bag slung over one shoulder.
Outside, the air was cold enough to bite, damp enough that my hair tried to curl at the ends. My bike waited chained to the rack—a battered thing, but the wheels loved me.
A car would have been nice. A private driver even better.
But I liked being close to the ground. Close to people. Close enough to hear the city waking up.
I swung my leg over the cycle and started pedaling.
The ride to the hospital wasn't long. Streets blurred past: coffee shops lighting up, buses exhaling, pedestrians wrapped in jackets and worries. My legs burned pleasantly, lungs opening with each breath.
Exercise first. Hell later.
By the time the sign appeared in front of me, I'd already rehearsed half a dozen protocols in my head.
Seattle Grace Hospital.
I slowed, rolled to a stop, and planted my feet on the ground in front of the main entrance, staring up at the building I'd watched on a screen in one life and chased on paper in another.
Big glass. Bigger reputation.
"Well," I said under my breath, lips curling. "Let the games begin."
I locked the bike, adjusted my collar, and stepped through the sliding doors into the chaos I'd asked a very tired God for.
Meredith – POV
The first thought that crossed my mind was that the floor was cold.
The second thought was that I was naked.
The third thought was that there was a very naked man sleeping on the rug next to my couch.
I groaned, yanked the pillow off his face, and used it to cover what I did not want to be looking at right now. He grunted, half‑asleep, hair a mess, body unfairly perfect under the thrown pillow.
"This is…" he started, blinking.
"Humiliating on so many levels," I cut in, grabbing my bra off the coffee table. "You have to go."
He sat up, all easy charm and blue eyes that clearly got him plenty of things for free.
"Or," he said, "you could come back to bed."
"We didn't even make it to a bed," I pointed out. "We met in a bar, we drank, we did…that." I waved vaguely at the air between us. "Let's not pretend we care who we are."
He watched me slip into my top, eyes dragging over me like he had every right.
"You're very direct," he said.
"I'm very late," I corrected. "I start a new job today."
"At a bar?" he teased.
"At a hospital," I shot back. "Seattle Grace. Now get up. I have to shower."
He sat there a moment longer, clearly wanting more.
"Thanks for that," I added with a small, wry smile. "It was…fun."
He smiled back—a little crooked, a little dangerous.
"You're welcome," he said.
I ushered him out the door before his charm could infect me any further. The moment it clicked shut, I pressed my back to it and exhaled.
New job. New hospital. One‑night stand with a beautiful stranger on my mother's living‑room floor.
Ellis Grey would be so proud.
I snorted at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth.
My mother was one of the greats. A legend. Ellis Grey: award‑winning surgeon, name on research papers, the kind of woman other doctors whispered about in hallways.
Me?
I was the girl stupid enough to sleep with a stranger before her first day as a surgical intern.
I pulled on my dark blue shirt, slipped into my pants, tied my hair back. Every movement was muscle memory, drilled into me by years of watching my mother get ready to slice people open.
Voiceover kicked in inside my own head, half habit, half coping mechanism.
The game. They say either a person has what it takes to play, or they don't. My mother was one of the greats. Me, on the other hand… I'm kinda screwed.
I grabbed my bag, keys, and the last of my dignity, and headed to Seattle Grace.
Orientation – Chief Webber
The auditorium felt like a battlefield before the war.
Rows of white coats, new and stiff, filled with interns pretending not to be terrified. I sat somewhere in the middle, trying not to think about the stranger I'd kicked out an hour ago, while the Chief of Surgery looked down at us.
Richard Webber wasn't tall, but he filled the space anyway—voice firm, eyes sharp, posture that told you he'd seen every version of this room before.
"Each of you comes here today hopeful, naïve, and technically still breathing," he began. "Welcome to Seattle Grace Hospital."
The room quieted.
"For the next seven years, you will experience more than most people can imagine. Some of you will quit. Some of you will crumble under the pressure."
His gaze swept across us.
"A few of you will reach greatness. That part is up to you."
I swallowed.
"Every one of you will be assigned to a resident," he continued. "From today, you are doctors. You may not feel like it, but the world will treat you like it. Look around you."
People shifted, glanced sideways.
"These are your colleagues," Webber said. "They are also your competition. You will switch specialties later. Some of you will find your calling. Some of you will burn out before you get there."
He paused, letting the weight of it sink in.
"From now on, people's lives will depend on you," he finished. "Don't forget that."
No pressure.
Locker Room
The locker room buzzed with nervous energy—metal doors slamming, hangers clinking, the rustle of new scrubs and whispered introductions.
I stood at my locker, trying to look like I wasn't mentally screaming, when someone slid into the space next to me.
Dark hair, sharp eyes, scrub top already hanging off a body that looked like it belonged in a magazine ad, not under hospital fluorescent lights.
Cristina Yang.
"I got Bailey," she said, snapping her locker shut. "Miranda Bailey. They call her the Nazi."
I checked my assignment card.
"I got Bailey," I said.
A low male voice came from just behind us, smooth and a little amused.
"I got Bailey too," he said. "Heard she's a Nazi."
We both turned.
The guy from the bike rack—not that I'd seen him, but if anyone rode a bike in slow motion under imaginary music, it would be this guy. Drop‑dead handsome. Strong jaw, black hair, dark eyes that looked like they'd cut you in half and then kindly stitch you back together. White shirt under his unbuttoned white coat, black pants, posture too relaxed for a first day.
Cristina's brows went up.
"Well," she murmured, "he's hot."
He smiled, small and easy, like he'd heard that a thousand times and never gotten tired of it.
"Well, thanks," he said. "Kiyotaka."
"Meredith," I replied before my brain could short‑circuit.
"Cristina," she added, giving him a quick, assessing look like he was a new, experimental procedure she hadn't decided on yet.
A slightly awkward guy in glasses and a nervous smile appeared at my other side, fumbling with his locker.
"I got Bailey too," he said quickly. "George. George O'Malley. We met at the mixer, right? You were in that black dress, and I was—"
"Talking. A lot," I supplied, smiling politely.
"At least we'll be tortured together," George added, trying to joke.
Kiyotaka glanced at him, expression unreadable.
"He's weird," he murmured lightly, just loud enough for us to hear.
I tried not to laugh.
As we headed out together, another blonde intern fell into step with us—pretty, bright‑eyed, already overcaffeinated.
"Izzie Stevens," she said. "Maybe they call her Nazi because she needs help."
Cristina gave her a once‑over.
"Let me guess," she said. "You're the model."
Izzie's jaw tightened.
"I put myself through med school," she shot back.
I believed her.
We didn't have time to argue because that was when Dr. Miranda Bailey walked in.
Short. Solid. Serious face. Curly hair pulled back tight. Scrubs and a lab coat. Eyes that could probably stop a moving gurney.
And, yes, as rumored, curves that would have made half the hospital gossip if they valued their lives less.
"I'm Dr. Bailey," she said. "I have five rules. Memorize them."
Izzie stepped forward, hand out.
"Hi, I'm Izzie—"
Bailey looked her up and down once, then looked past her like the hand did not exist.
"Rule number one," Bailey said. "Don't bother sucking up. I already hate you. That is not going to change."
She gestured to the bench behind us.
"Trauma protocol, phone lists, pagers. Nurses will page you; you answer every page at a run. A run. That's rule number two."
My stomach sank.
"Your first shift starts now and lasts 48 hours," Bailey continued. "You are interns. Grunts. Nobodies. Bottom of the surgical food chain. You run labs, write orders, work every second until you drop."
On‑call rooms, she informed us, were the attendings' playgrounds. We slept when we could, where we could.
"Which brings me to rule number four," she finished. "When I'm sleeping, don't wake me. Are we clear?"
I raised my hand.
Before I could speak, Kiyotaka's hand went up slightly slower, but his voice cut in first.
"Yes," Bailey said, pointing. "You. Kiyoto‑whatever."
"Just Kiyo is fine," he replied. "You said five rules. That was only four."
Bailey's eyes narrowed.
Her pager shrieked.
She slapped it, glanced down, then snapped her head up.
"Rule number five," she barked, already moving. "When I move, you move."
She took off down the corridor at a run, barking at doctors to get out of her way. We scrambled after her like ducklings, barely keeping up.
Rooftop – First Case
The helicopter's blades chopped the air as we spilled out onto the rooftop, wind slapping our coats and hair. The noise was deafening.
"Multiple seizures since this morning," an ER doc shouted over the roar as they rolled a teen girl off the chopper. "Fifteen years old, no trauma, no known history. We've been pumping her with meds, but she keeps seizing. BP dropping."
"Move, move, move!" Bailey yelled.
The girl on the stretcher—small, pretty, a tiara bruised askew in my mind even if she wasn't wearing one yet—jerked, limbs rigid, eyes rolled back.
Grand mal. Katie Bryce. The name hadn't hit me yet, but the situation had.
Before Bailey could issue orders, Kiyotaka was already moving.
He stepped to the side of the stretcher, grabbed the rail, and turned Katie onto her side, protecting her airway, keeping her from aspirating. With his other hand, he reached into the emergency med kit the flight team had brought, fingers moving like he'd rehearsed this a thousand times.
"Five milligrams diazepam IM," he said, already drawing up the dose in a syringe. "She's been seizing too long; we need to break the cycle before she crashes completely."
He injected smoothly into her thigh, then barked to the nurse, "Large‑bore IV, right arm. I'll take care of the line."
Meredith—me—reached for the white lead on the monitor, flipping through protocol in my head.
"No, it's the red," he corrected automatically without even glancing up, hands steady on the IV. "Cardiac. Watch her rhythm."
The seizure began to ease, muscles loosening, breathing less ragged. Her blood pressure numbers wobbled, then stabilized enough that everyone's shoulders dropped a fraction.
Cristina stared at him like he'd just pulled a rabbit out of an aorta.
George blinked, wide‑eyed.
"Dude, how did you know what to do?" he blurted.
Kiyotaka shrugged, still focused on taping the IV.
"I read," he said simply. "A lot. Seizures, peds, emergency protocols. Videos. Journals. Textbooks. They all say the same thing: protect the airway, stop the storm, stabilize the rest."
He finally looked up, eyes briefly meeting mine.
I couldn't help it. I smiled.
Bailey marched up to him, expression tight but not angry.
"Mr. Kiyo," she said. "Now that you've hijacked my entrance, can I get the full explanation before I decide whether to write you up or not?"
He met her stare without flinching.
"Fifteen‑year‑old with multiple seizures since morning," he began, voice calm. "No clear trauma history reported yet. If she's been seizing repeatedly, her brain is burning through oxygen and glucose. Diazepam IM at five milligrams is standard for acute management when IV access is delayed or patient is thrashing."
He nodded toward Katie.
"Turning her to the side prevents aspiration if she vomits," he continued. "Large‑bore IV for fluids, possible second‑line meds, and labs. Red lead for continuous cardiac monitoring. We stabilize her first so we have time to find out why she's seizing."
Bailey's mouth pressed into a line that wasn't quite disapproval.
"Next time, you wait for my order before you show off," she said. "But today, you're lucky you were right."
She turned as another presence entered the chaos—calm, tall, focused.
"Where are we with this patient, Dr. Bailey?" Preston Burke asked, striding over in his attending coat, presence as sharp as the scalpel he probably slept with.
"Fifteen‑year‑old female, multiple seizures of unknown origin, stabilized for now," Bailey replied.
Burke glanced at Katie.
"Let's shotgun her," he said.
Bailey turned to us.
"That means every test in the book," she snapped. "CT, CBC, Chem‑7, tox screen, EEG, pregnancy test, lumbar puncture if we need it, infectious workup, maybe autoimmune markers if nothing hits. If it exists and won't kill her, we run it."
She pointed.
"Cristina, you're on labs. Run them, track them, chase down anything that looks weird. George, patient workups and family history. Meredith, you're with George on checkups and charting."
Her eyes landed on Kiyotaka.
"Kiyo," she said. "You get Katie to CT. She is your responsibility from now on. You earned it. Don't make me regret saying that."
He nodded once.
"Yes, ma'am."
Behind us, Izzie sputtered.
"Wait, what about me?" she protested. "I helped—"
Bailey didn't even flinch.
"You," she said, "are on rectal exams. Every one the ER has been saving up. You want in this program? Prove you can do the ugly work."
Izzie's face fell.
Cristina smirked.
Kiyotaka pushed Katie's stretcher toward the elevator, already flipping through possible causes in his head, if his eyes were anything to go by.
As the doors closed on him and the girl with a storm in her brain, I realized something:
On day one, in the first minutes of our first shift, one intern had already stepped forward while the rest of us froze.
And if I wasn't careful, Seattle Grace was going to eat me alive—while someone like Kiyotaka carved his name into its walls.