Cristina was leaning against the scrub sink like a debt collector, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't have a chart in her hand for once; she just had a look of pure, unadulterated suspicion.
"A high-priced litigation shark in a three-piece suit just walked out of the Chief's office after spending twenty minutes whispered-vaulting with you," Cristina stated, her voice flat and demanding. "That wasn't a 'consultant' for a medical case, Wright. That was a fixer. Who is he, and why is a twenty-one-year-old resident carrying around a legal nuclear option in his back pocket?"
Christopher didn't even pause his hand-washing. He watched the water swirl down the drain, his reflection in the chrome faucet looking distorted and predatory.
"His name is Jack, Cristina. He's a fan of vintage scotch and very, very long sentences," Christopher drawled, his voice dripping with a bored, melodic sarcasm. "As for why he's here? Maybe I'm just preparing for my inevitable career as a professional scapegoat. Or maybe he's just here to remind the Chief that my contract has more fine print than the Geneva Convention."
"You're lying," Cristina snapped, stepping closer. "You're hiding something. The 'Steak-Knife' incident, the 'miracle' spinal repair, and now a lawyer who scares the hell out of Webber? You aren't just a prodigy. You're a liability wrapped in a lab coat."
Christopher turned the faucet off with a sharp, metallic clack. He turned to face her, his height advantage and cold gaze making the small room feel suddenly claustrophobic.
"I'm the liability that just saved your career, Yang," he whispered, his tone dropping an octave into something truly dangerous. "While you and your little band of 007s were busy playing 'Let's commit felony medical malpractice', I was the one standing in that office making sure you didn't spend the next ten years flipping burgers. If I'm a liability, I'm the only reason you still have a stethscope instead of a pair of handcuffs."
Cristina opened her mouth to retort, but the words died in her throat. The sheer weight of his arrogance—and the undeniable truth of his protection—hit her like a defibrillator shock.
"Details are for people who need to explain themselves, Cristina," Christopher continued, stepping around her. "I don't. I just produce results. Now, go check on Stevens. She's currently a walking PTSD trigger, and I'd prefer it if she didn't accidentally unplug anyone else's life support while she's mourning her poor life choices."
He walked out of the scrub room, his pace brisk and unbothered. He didn't look back to see the fury and confusion on her face. He knew she would keep digging—it was in her DNA—but for now, he had successfully muddied the waters.
He reached into his pocket and felt the vibration of his phone.
"The shark has left the building. Dinner is still on, but I might need you to perform a stress-test on me after that meeting. Webber has a very firm handshake. - Jack"
Christopher felt a genuine, sharp smirk touch his lips. He was twenty-one, triple-board certified, a transmigrator, and he had a boyfriend who could sue the Grim Reaper.
The Wright Way indeed, he thought.
But as he turned the corner toward the lobby, he saw Meredith Grey standing by the doors, looking out into the rain with that specific, haunting look that usually preceded a Season Finale disaster.