Christopher sighed, the sound echoing against the sterile, high-tech tiles of 2024. He didn't reach for a biting insult or a dismissal. He reached down and picked up the discarded hemostat, handing it to William George with a grip that was surprisingly firm.
"In this hospital, '007' is a death sentence, William," Christopher said, his voice dropping the playful sarcasm for a tone of cold, hard-won wisdom. "Don't wear it like a badge. Wear it like a target you're trying to dodge."
The intern looked up, star-struck. Christopher saw the same spark in the boy's eyes that he'd seen in the original George, in Lexie, in Stephanie. The "Script" was hungry again. It was already looking for the next elevator surgery, the next heart to break, the next "perfect" tragedy to film.
"Follow me," Christopher commanded, turning toward the OR. "I'm scrubbing in on a high-risk neuro-cardiac repair. You're going to observe, and if you blink at the wrong time, you're back to rectal exams."
As they walked, Christopher caught his own reflection in the glass of the gallery. He was older, his face etched with the secrets of a dozen timelines. He knew Meredith was looking for an exit strategy to Boston. He knew the hospital's foundation was still metaphorically built on a graveyard. But he also knew the "Source Code" better than any living soul.
"Dr. Wright?" William asked, scurrying to keep up. "Are the stories true? About the bomb? And the ferry? And... you knowing they were coming?"
Christopher stopped at the scrub sink, the water hissing as it hit the porcelain. He looked at the kid—the legacy of the people he had fought to save.
"The stories are just drafts, William," Christopher said, his internal monologue finally quieting. "Life is the rewrite. And I'm a very, very strict editor."
He pushed through the double doors, leaving the ghosts of 2005 behind. He wasn't the Oracle anymore; he was the Guard.
But as the automatic doors sealed, a shadow flickered in the corner of the gallery. A woman in a dark suit, holding a yellow legal pad, sat in the front row. She didn't have a badge. She just had a pen.
Christopher didn't look up. He just gripped the scalpel and made the first incision.
"Scalpel," he said, his voice steady. "And someone get me a soundtrack. Something without lyrics. I'm tired of the singing."