The neurosurgery conference room was a tomb of failed data sets and black-and-white MRIs. Derek Shepherd sat at the head of the table, his surgical cap discarded, his perfect hair finally showing the fray of a dozen deaths. Beside him, Meredith Grey stared at the viral load calculations with a hollow-eyed desperation.
They were 12 patients in. 12 deaths. In the original canon, they were about to hit their thirteenth and final patient, Beth Monroe, who would become the first success of the Shepherd Method.
Christopher stood in the corner, his white coat glowing under the fluorescent lights. He didn't have a patient; he had a plan.
"Your delivery system is clumsy, Derek," Christopher drawled, his voice a clinical razor. "You're injecting the virus directly into the tumour bed, but your osmotic pressure is unstable. You're killing the tissue before the virus can replicate."
Derek looked up, his blue eyes bloodshot. "It's a malignant glioma, Wright. It's inoperable. We're working blind."
"You're working with a hammer when you need a laser," Christopher countered, dropping a leather-bound folder on the table—the results of 'research' he had back-dated to hide his foreknowledge. "I've calculated the intracranial dynamics. If you use a micro-catheter and tether the viral load to a nylon filament, you can localize the infection and prevent the cerebral oedema that killed your last three patients."
Meredith leaned in, her eyes scanning the notes. "This is... precision care. You're mapping the genetics of the tumour to the delivery speed."
"I'm improving the odds, Grey," Christopher drawled, adjusting his glasses. "Consider it a gift for not drowning last week. I've already prepped the lab. Beth Monroe arrives in four hours. If you follow the 'The Wright Way', she'll be the first person in medical history to survive this."
Derek looked at Christopher with a mixture of awe and frustration. "Why do you care, Christopher?"
"Because failure is untidy, Derek," Christopher said, turning toward the door. "And I have a Thai food date that I refuse to cancel because you couldn't find the right angle."
He walked out, his phone vibrating with a text from Jack. "The brownstone has power. The wine is decanting. Stop fixing Derek's legacy and come home. - J"
Christopher smirked, a genuine, unscripted expression. He was sealing the Shepherd-Grey legacy with precision, but he was writing his own future in Queen Anne.