The Knight’s Oath: Grey’s Anatomy

The apartment was too quiet.

It wasn't the comfortable kind of quiet—the kind that settled over him when he needed to think. It was suffocating, the kind that made his thoughts too loud, made them crash into each other without giving him room to breathe.

Medical journals lay scattered across the floor, a battlefield of research that had yielded nothing but dead ends. Pages were covered in sharp, precise handwriting, diagrams drawn with the steady hand of a surgeon desperate to find an answer. But it wasn't enough. None of it was enough.

Jamie lay motionless in the middle of it all, half-buried under the weight of his own obsession. A thick medical journal had slipped over his face sometime during the night. His arm was tucked under his head as an impromptu pillow, his long frame sprawled across the hardwood floor, muscles stiff from the awkward sleeping position.

His phone buzzed against the coffee table.

Jamie let out a quiet groan, shifting slightly as a dull ache radiated down his back and into his neck. The vibration persisted, relentless. With a grunt, he pulled the journal off his face and blinked at the harsh morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His surroundings blurred for a second before settling into focus—the books, the half-empty coffee mug on the table, the untouched couch just a few feet away.

Damn. He hadn't meant to fall asleep like this.

His phone buzzed again. He reached for it blindly, answering without checking the caller ID.

"Knight," he muttered, voice rough from exhaustion.

"Sir, I assume you're awake?"

Jamie sighed, pressing his free hand to the knot forming at the base of his neck. James. Always perfectly composed, always precise with his timing.

"Barely," Jamie admitted, rolling onto his side before forcing himself upright. His back protested immediately.

"Understood," James replied smoothly. "I wanted to confirm whether you'd like someone to retrieve your car from the harbor. You mentioned it yesterday."

Jamie exhaled, running a hand through his already messy hair. Right. His car. He had nearly forgotten.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his temple. "You have the spare keys, right?"

"Of course, sir. I'll have it delivered to your building within the hour."

Jamie barely registered the response as he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from sleeping on the damn floor. His neck cracked audibly.

"Appreciate it," he muttered, glancing at the untouched espresso machine in the kitchen.

"Will you be requiring anything else this morning?" James inquired, professional as ever.

Jamie smiled faintly despite himself. If only he knew.

"No, just the car."

"Very well, sir."

The call ended. Jamie let his phone drop onto the couch as he pushed himself to his feet with a quiet grunt. His muscles protested the movement, his spine aching in places he hadn't realized could ache.

Never again. He was a grown man, not a damn intern pulling an all-nighter in the on-call room.

Shaking off the thought, he stepped over the mess of journals and books, moving toward the bathroom.

The shower hummed to life as he turned the handle, steam curling into the air, swallowing the mirror in a thick fog. The heat worked through his muscles as he braced a hand against the cool tile, tilting his head forward, letting the water cascade over him.

But it did nothing to clear his mind.

Harold O'Malley's case gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, relentless.

He'd spent hours combing through every surgical journal, every case study that even remotely touched on esophageal cancer in post-valve replacement patients. Nothing fit. The standard approaches weren't built for cases like this—cases where every option carried just as much risk as the disease itself.

If Harold had been healthier, Jamie could have pushed the boundaries. He'd done it before, had taken impossible cases and turned them into victories.

But Harold wasn't a healthy candidate. His heart was already compromised. The tumor had spread deeper than anticipated, making a full resection nearly impossible without risking catastrophic complications.

Without surgery, Harold would have weeks—maybe months.

With surgery, he could die on the table.

His fingers curled against the tile, jaw tightening.

How the hell was he supposed to fix this?

Frustration burned under his skin. He shut the water off sharply, grabbing a towel and running it over his face. The mirror was still clouded with steam, his reflection barely visible, just a vague silhouette staring back at him.

Good.

He didn't want to see himself right now.

The morning routine was automatic—shaving, toweling off, brushing a hand through damp hair. Control. Order. Predictability. The things that kept him grounded.

But the second he opened his closet, something pulled him out of the rhythm.

He reached for his usual—gray hoodie, sweatpants. Comfortable. Something easy to wear while he buried himself back into research.

It wasn't there.

His brow furrowed before realization struck.

Lexie.

Standing in his kitchen. Drowning in his hoodie.

She'd rolled up the sleeves, grinning at him over the stove, hair still slightly damp from her own shower, looking completely at home despite the fact that she had barely been in his space for more than a few days.

Jamie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

Not now.

He shoved the closet door shut and grabbed something else instead—a light gray suit, a black shirt. Nothing too formal, but still sharp. Something that made him feel like he was in control of something, even if it was just how he looked. He fastened the simple Vacheron Constantin watch around his wrist, adjusting the cuffs before grabbing his coat and keys.

If his mind was going to be a battlefield, at least he'd be dressed for war.

Back in the living room, he drowned another cup of coffee and started reorganizing the mess he had made. Books back onto shelves. Notes stacked into folders. Diagrams clipped together.

It didn't fix Harold's case, but it cleared the noise.

Maybe he should ask James to expand his library—Seattle Grace had its resources, but he needed more. Something cutting-edge. Experimental. Something that would give him an answer.

The phone buzzed again.

"Sir, the car is in the underground parking lot," James informed him.

Jamie nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "Got it. I'll be down in a few minutes."

A pause.

"Will you be needing anything else?"

Jamie hesitated, glancing out the window. The sky was a dull shade of gray, the city stretched out below him in its usual, restless state. He could stay here, dive back into the journals, keep chasing solutions in circles.

Or he could clear his head.

He exhaled through his nose, decision made.

"I'll be coming by the manor later," he said. "Might do me some good."

James didn't sound surprised. "Shall I let your grandmother know?"

Jamie smirked slightly, grabbing his coat. "She'll know the second I step inside."

"Very well, sir. I'll have the staff prepare for your arrival."

Jamie hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket as he headed for the door.

Harold O'Malley's case still lingered at the edges of his thoughts, unresolved.

-------------------------------

The drive to the manor was quiet, the low hum of the Aston Martin's engine the only sound filling the space. Jamie gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his other tapping idly against his thigh as the city blurred past him. His mind was still trapped in the endless cycle of problem-solving, turning Harold O'Malley's case over and over, searching for something he had missed.

He hated this feeling—the weight of an unsolved problem pressing against his ribs like a vice, clawing at his mind like an itch just out of reach.

The road stretched out ahead, winding toward the familiar estate he had spent summers in as a boy. Knight Manor stood in the distance, unchanged, timeless, a place where the world seemed to move at its own pace.

By the time he pulled up the long drive, James was already waiting at the front entrance, as if he had known the exact moment Jamie would arrive.

James stepped forward, opening the driver's side door with practiced efficiency.

"Welcome back, Master James."

Jamie exhaled, stepping out and rolling his shoulders slightly. "You didn't have to wait outside."

James simply smiled, his expression unreadable as ever. "Your grandmother is in the dining room. She insisted you join her for brunch."

Jamie rolled his eyes. That sounded like her.

The grand doors swung open, and Jamie stepped inside, the warmth of the manor wrapping around him instantly. It smelled the same—fresh flowers, aged wood, and a faint trace of lavender.

As he walked through the hall, the distant sound of soft conversation and the quiet clinking of fine porcelain guided him toward the dining room.

The moment he entered, his grandmother, Eleanor Knight, looked up from her tea and immediately rose to greet him.

"Jamie, dear," she said warmly, crossing the room with the grace only she could manage. "You look exhausted."

She cupped his face gently for a moment before stepping back, her sharp gaze assessing him with the precision of a woman who had spent her entire life running in elite circles, always knowing more than she let on.

"Have you been eating properly?" she asked, frowning slightly. "You've lost weight."

Jamie sighed, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You say that every time you see me."

"And every time, I'm right," she shot back smoothly before motioning toward the other woman seated at the table.

Jamie turned, his expression neutral at first, but the moment his eyes met hers, recognition flickered.

Dr. Catherine Avery.

She was watching him carefully, her sharp eyes calculating, taking him in like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.

"Dr. Avery," Jamie greeted with a polite nod as he pulled out a chair.

"Dr. Knight," she replied smoothly, offering a small but knowing smile.

James stepped forward then, setting a fresh cup of coffee in front of Jamie before retreating into the background, leaving the three of them alone.

Jamie took a slow sip, his focus shifting between Catherine and his grandmother. "So, brunch?"

His grandmother gestured delicately toward the spread of fresh fruit, pastries, and perfectly arranged plates. "Catherine was in town, and I thought it would be lovely for the two of you to meet."

Jamie arched a brow. "Right. And does this meeting come with an agenda?"

Catherine let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "Nothing dramatic, I assure you. I was speaking with your grandmother about the foundation gala this evening. Knight Holdings are one of the investors, so I wanted to clear up a few things before the event."

Jamie blinked, his mind momentarily blank before realization hit.

Right. The gala.

His grandmother had mentioned it days ago, a passing reminder that had barely registered amid the chaos of work and Harold O'Malley's case.

He exhaled through his nose, setting his coffee cup down with practiced ease. "Right. The gala."

Eleanor arched a perfectly sculpted brow, watching him with the same scrutinizing gaze she had used on him since childhood—the one that told him she could see right through any excuse he might attempt.

"You forgot about it," she said simply.

Jamie shook his head, straightening slightly in his chair. "I did not forget about it," he countered, a touch too quickly.

His grandmother's lips twitched as if she were suppressing amusement. "Of course not."

Catherine smiled into her coffee cup but said nothing.

Jamie sighed, rubbing his temple before looking between them. "When and where is it again?"

Catherine set her cup down and answered smoothly. "7 p.m. The McKim Building."

Jamie gave a slow nod. That tracked. The McKim Building was exactly the kind of place his grandmother would consider suitable—classic, grand, an air of old money sophistication wrapped in stone and history.

His gaze flickered to his grandmother. "And when were you planning to remind me?"

Eleanor sipped her tea leisurely. "I assumed you would check your calendar."

Jamie huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Of course you did."

Catherine chuckled. "Will you be attending, or should I make a note that Dr. Knight is too busy saving lives to bother with champagne and investors?"

Jamie exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table absently. He hadn't planned on going. But skipping wasn't really an option—not when Knight Holdings had its name attached to the event.

Not when his grandmother had already decided he was going and he promised her he would attend.

He picked up his coffee again, taking a slow sip before giving a resigned nod.

"I'll be there."

Jamie took another sip of coffee, letting the words settle before something in his mind clicked.

Boston.

His gaze flicked toward his grandmother. "Nana, didn't you say the gala was in Seattle?"

Eleanor didn't so much as blink. "It was."

Jamie narrowed his eyes slightly. "And now it's in Boston?"

His grandmother exhaled as if the explanation was obvious. "The original venue was not suitable."

Jamie let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. "Right. Boston it is. No other thought, huh?"

Eleanor smiled in that way that said she had already won.

Jamie let it slide. There was no point in arguing.

Catherine studied him for a moment before leaning back slightly.

"So, Jamie, now that you're back in the field, do you plan on continuing your research?"

Jamie glanced at her, his expression neutral. "Which research?"

"The work you started in New York," Catherine clarified. "You were making incredible progress in cardiothoracic surgery—pioneering techniques in minimally invasive heart surgery. Your research had the potential to change how we operate on high-risk patients."

Jamie exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "That was a long time ago." He glanced down at his coffee cup. "I've shifted focus. Right now, I'm making plans for a Level 1 Trauma Center here in Seattle. It's something the city needs, and I can make sure it's run the right way."

Catherine tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "That's a lovely idea," she said, and then after a brief pause, added, "but it's not exactly on your level, is it?"

Jamie raised a brow.

Catherine held his gaze. "You're a surgeon who thrives in impossible situations. You don't just build things, Jamie. You change them. Trauma centers are necessary, but you? You were pushing cardiothoracic advancements that could have rewritten the rules of surgery. And now, you're tied to a hospital, letting your skills be dictated by whoever calls the next trauma case."

Jamie didn't react immediately, simply swirling his coffee in his cup, considering her words.

Catherine sighed. "It's just a thought," she said, before shifting slightly. Her gaze softened. "Your mother would have loved to see what you've accomplished."

Jamie looked up at that, caught off guard.

Catherine smiled faintly. "Your eyes," she murmured. "They remind me of hers."

Jamie frowned slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. "You knew my mother?"

Catherine nodded. "We were residents together at Brigham. She was ahead of me, but everyone knew Elizabeth Knight." She smiled slightly, a touch of admiration in her voice. "She was brilliant. Intimidating as hell. But she was also one of the best surgeons I'd ever seen."

Jamie swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"I admired her," Catherine continued. "She was like a mentor to me during my internship. She used to keep journals—she wrote everything down. Every new idea, every technique she wanted to refine."

Jamie's breath hitched slightly.

Journals.

His mother's journals.

His gaze flickered downward to the medical text he had been holding absentmindedly. His grip tightened. That nagging feeling—the one that had been picking at the edges of his mind for days—suddenly snapped into place.

He had seen something like this before.

Not in a medical journal.

Not in a modern case study.

In his mother's journals.

Jamie's pulse kicked up. He set his coffee down abruptly, pushing back his chair as he stood.

"I need to check something," he said quickly.

His grandmother barely looked surprised, but Catherine raised a brow. "Something wrong?"

Jamie was already halfway across the room. "If I'm right—maybe not."

Catherine turned to Eleanor, watching as Jamie disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"He's just like her," Catherine murmured.

Eleanor let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "Elizabeth was the same way. When she had an idea, nothing could stop her."

Catherine smiled slightly. "I can see that."

As Jamie disappeared up the stairs, Catherine exhaled, watching the way he had rushed off with sudden urgency. She took a sip of her coffee before glancing toward Eleanor, a subtle curiosity settling in her gaze.

"So," Catherine said lightly, setting her cup down, "I have to ask—why the change in location? Not that I mind. Saves me the flight back."

Eleanor gave a small, knowing smile, delicately stirring her tea. "Boston was the better option."

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Better how?"

Eleanor finally looked up, her sharp blue eyes twinkling with something unspoken. "There's a woman there," she said simply.

Catherine tilted her head slightly, intrigued. "A woman?"

Eleanor nodded. "Jamie went out with her. And when he was with her, he smiled in a way I haven't seen since his mother died."

Catherine considered that for a moment, tapping a finger lightly against the porcelain rim of her cup.

Eleanor exhaled, a hint of mischief playing in her features. "I don't want to wait fifteen years to hold my great-grandchildren, Catherine. And if left to his own devices, Jamie is going to stay single forever. That boy has built walls around himself so high that no one dares to scale them." She sighed, shaking her head. "But her? I think she could."

Catherine smiled knowingly, leaning back in her chair. "That sounds familiar."

Eleanor arched a brow. "Oh?"

Catherine chuckled, shaking her head. "My son—Jackson."

Eleanor let out an amused hum. "How is he?"

"Stubborn," Catherine replied with a fond sigh. "Harper has a spot lined up for him at Mass General after med school, but Jackson? No. He refuses to take it. Says he wants to make it on his own. Never accepts help from the family."

Eleanor chuckled, her gaze distant with memory. "Jamie was the same at that age. Always trying to prove himself, always running toward the hardest path just to say he could do it on his own."

Catherine nodded, watching the flicker of emotion in Eleanor's expression.

"But the Army changed him," Eleanor continued, her voice quieter now, almost reflective. "He was always closed off. Focused. Driven. But when he came back?" She sighed. "It was different. He built this wall around himself." She gestured , and Catherine understood exactly what she meant.

A wall.

A fortress of control, of detachment.

"And if this girl in Boston," Eleanor continued, "if she has any chance of breaking through that wall? Then I won't let my grandson waste his chance at happiness."

Catherine smiled softly, tilting her head slightly. "That, Eleanor, is why you and I get along so well."

Eleanor let out a quiet chuckle, taking another sip of tea.

Catherine glanced toward the staircase where Jamie had disappeared. "We'll see if he takes the push."

Eleanor smiled. "He won't have a choice."

------------------------------

Jamie stepped into his room with purpose, his mind moving faster than his body. The moment the door shut behind him, he strode toward the wooden chest by the window—the one filled with personal artifacts, pieces of his past that he rarely allowed himself to revisit.

He dropped to one knee, fingers gripping the metal handle as he lifted the heavy lid. The scent of old paper and worn leather filled the air as he pushed aside a few letters, photographs, and notes. Beneath them, stacked neatly yet untouched for years, lay his mother's journals.

Jamie exhaled. He had read them all before—at least, he thought he had. But now, after what Catherine had said downstairs, after that flicker of recognition in the back of his mind, something told him he had missed something.

Something important.

His fingers traced over the worn edges before he pulled out one of the journals, its leather cover smooth from years of handling. He flipped it open, scanning over the familiar precise, meticulous handwriting of Dr. Elizabeth Knight.

She had documented everything—techniques, theories, ideas that had never been tested in her time.

Jamie's breath caught as his eyes landed on a particular passage, the ink slightly smudged from where her pen must have lingered too long.

------------------------------------

March 1989

There has to be a better way.

Esophageal cancer patients are dying because our approach is flawed. Resection works, but it's too aggressive. The margins are never clean enough. The sutures fail. Too much blood loss. Too many complications. We need a method to map the tumor in real-time—to see where the cancer stops before we make the cut.

Fluorescence-guided surgery is the key.

But the technology isn't ready. The contrast agents degrade too fast. We can map blood flow, but not individual cancer cells. Not yet.

Maybe in twenty years, they'll figure it out.

-----------------------------------

Jamie sat back on his heels, gripping the edge of the journal tightly.

Fluorescence-guided surgery.

She had thought of it before anyone else.

Before it became a research focus. Before the clinical trials in brain tumors. Before the 2006 studies that would later introduce it as a cutting-edge technique in oncology.

She had seen the future before it existed.

Jamie flipped the page, his pulse picking up as he scanned her notes. She had started developing a theoretical model—one that combined tumor stabilization techniques with contrast mapping.

The same principle he had been considering for Harold O'Malley's surgery.

Except when she was working on it, in 1989, it wasn't feasible.

But now? Now it was.

Jamie let out a sharp breath, his mind racing. He had been so close. The idea had been at the edge of his mind, that strange sense of déjà vu lingering every time he tried to map out a solution.

Because he had seen it before—in her words.

He snapped the journal shut and stood, his movements urgent, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He had what he needed.

He turned and rushed out of the room.

Jamie descended the staircase with determined strides, the journal clutched tightly in his hand. His mind raced with the implications of his mother's notes and the potential breakthrough for Harold O'Malley's case. Entering the parlor, he found his grandmother, Eleanor, and Dr. Catherine Avery engaged in light conversation.

"Nana, I need to get to the hospital," Jamie announced, his voice edged with urgency. "I think I've found a solution for my patient."

Eleanor looked up, her expression unreadable at first, then softened with understanding. "Of course, dear. But don't forget—we have a flight to Boston for the gala this evening."

Jamie nodded, already running calculations in his head. "I'll meet you at the airport. What time is the jet leaving?"

Eleanor took a slow sip of her tea before replying, "We're departing at 11 a.m."

Jamie processed the timeline. A private jet meant no commercial delays, cutting down travel time significantly. The flight from Seattle to Boston takes roughly 5 hours, and with Boston being 3 hours ahead, that put them landing around 7 p.m. Eastern Time—just as the gala was starting.

He frowned slightly. "That doesn't leave much time before the event."

Eleanor raised a knowing brow. "It leaves just enough time."

Jamie exhaled, shaking his head but letting it go. She had planned this deliberately.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll be back before then."

Eleanor gave him a knowing smile. "Go, do what you must. We'll be ready when you return."

Without another word, Jamie turned and strode toward the door, his mind already shifting back to the hospital. He had work to do—and for the first time in days, he finally saw a way forward.

---------------------------

Jamie strode through the hospital halls, his grip firm around the journal in his hand. He didn't slow down, didn't let the usual noise of Seattle Grace pull him out of his focus. He had a solution—one that had been waiting to be discovered for decades—and he wasn't going to waste another second.

As he reached the nurses' station, he barely paused.

"Page Dr. Bailey and O'Malley," he instructed the charge nurse, his voice even, controlled. "Tell them I need them in Harold O'Malley's room."

The nurse blinked, glancing at him before making the call.

Jamie didn't wait for an answer.

---------------------------

A few minutes later, Dr. Miranda Bailey and George O'Malley came down the hall, both looking varying degrees of confused and annoyed.

Bailey was not impressed.

"Knight, what the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, arms crossed. "It's your day off."

Jamie didn't break stride as he motioned for them to follow him down the hall.

"Change of plans," he said simply. "Come with me."

Bailey narrowed her eyes, but she followed. George, glancing between the two, hurried after them.

By the time they reached Harold O'Malley's hospital room, the place was crowded. **Family members, visitors, conversations overlapping—the air was thick with emotion and tension.

Jamie pushed the door open, stepped inside, and clapped his hands together once.

"Alright, everyone out," he said, his voice firm but controlled.

The room went silent.

George's mother, frowned. "Excuse me?"

Jamie softened his expression, but his tone remained steady. "I just need a few moments with Harold, George, and Dr. Bailey. I promise, I'll explain everything after, but for now, I need the room clear."

There was some murmuring, a few protests, but a look from Bailey was enough to make people start gathering their things.

One by one, they shuffled out.

Once the door clicked shut, Bailey turned to Jamie, not amused.

"Alright," she said, arms still crossed. "What the hell was that?"

George looked uneasy, shifting on his feet. "Yeah, Dr. Knight, what's going on?"

Jamie set the journal down on Harold's bedside table, flipping it open to the pages he had marked.

"I have a plan for the surgery," Jamie stated plainly.

Harold O'Malley frowned. "Surgery? I thought everything was already decided."

Bailey folded her arms tighter. "The scan shows no metastases, Knight. We've already planned for tomorrow. What exactly are you trying to pull here?"

Jamie exhaled through his nose, staying calm. "The scan shows no obvious mets," he corrected. "That doesn't mean they aren't there."

Bailey raised an eyebrow. "You think you know more than the radiologists?"

Jamie didn't flinch. "I think I know how to read a scan." He looked between them. "There are subtle irregularities that suggest the tumor has metastased."

George's expression changed. "Wait… what?"

Bailey exhaled sharply, her skepticism clear. "That's a bold claim, Knight."

Harold frowned. "Somebody want to explain what that means in English?"

Jamie held up a hand, silencing the simultaneous voices in the room. Once they quieted, he turned to Harold directly.

"I believe your cancer has spread further than we initially thought," Jamie explained. "The scan isn't clear-cut, but there are minor abnormalities that point to possible spread. If we go ahead with the surgery as planned, there's a chance we might have to close you up and leave the tumor as it is. The burden the surgery would place on your body would be to great and the risk of multiple organ failure high."

Bailey scoffed. "That's a guess, Knight. If it's not on the scan, it's not there."

Jamie's jaw ticked slightly, but his voice remained measured. "It's an educated guess, Bailey. And it's one I'm willing to bet on."

George swallowed. "So what do you want to do?"

Jamie turned the journal toward them, his fingers running along the pages.

"My mother theorized a technique for this back in the 80s. At the time, it wasn't feasible. But now? It is."

Bailey glanced down at the journal, then back up at him.

Harold let out a slow breath. "What's the plan?"

"I want to use fluorescence-guided imaging during your surgery," Jamie said. "By injecting a contrast agent before we operate, we can map the cancer in real-time. That means we don't have to guess where it ends—we'll be able to see it."

Bailey squinted at him. "You want to use an experimental technique on a man who's already in a weakened state?"

Jamie nodded. "Yes. Because if we don't, we risk resecting too much. This gives us a chance to get every last cell, while reducing the burden it places on your body."

Bailey ran a hand over her face. "And you think that'll buy him more time?"

Jamie exhaled. "Without surgery? Weeks to months. Depending on how aggressive the spread is." He let that settle before adding, "With surgery? Depending on the chemo, maybe two years. And medicine is always advancing."

The room fell silent.

Harold O'Malley looked at his son, then at Jamie. His face was unreadable for a long moment—then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," Harold said. "Let's do it."

Bailey let out a sharp breath, clearly still weighing the risks.

George looked at his father, then at Jamie, his uncertainty plain. "Dad, are you sure?"

Harold met his son's eyes. "I've been given two choices, Georgie. I'll take the one that gives me a chance."

Jamie gave a small nod, then turned to Bailey. "Dr. Bailey. Are you in?"

Bailey let out a long sigh, staring at Jamie for a beat. Then, with reluctance but conviction, she nodded.

"I still think you're crazy," she muttered.

Jamie smirked slightly. "You wouldn't be the first person to tell me that."

Bailey rolled her eyes but finally nodded. "Alright."

-----------------------------

Jamie walked out of Harold O'Malley's hospital room with Bailey and George close behind, tension still thick in the air.

"You want us to tell Webber?" Bailey asked, folding her arms. "You mean you want me to tell Webber."

Jamie grinned slightly but didn't slow his pace. "You're Webber's protégé Bailey. He actually listens to you."

Bailey sighed. "Fine. But if he yells at me, I'm sending him straight to you."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Jamie replied.

George, still tense, hesitated before speaking. "And what are you going to do?"

Jamie glanced at him.

"I need to talk to Derek."

George blinked. "Derek Shepherd? Neuro Shepherd? What does he have to do with this?"

Jamie didn't stop walking. "He's the only guy in this hospital who's used fluorescence imaging in surgery before. If anyone knows where I can get the dye, it's him."

And with that, Jamie veered off toward the Neurosurgery wing.

-------------------------------

Jamie entered the Neurosurgery wing, his steps quick. He knew exactly where to find Derek Shepherd at this time of the day—either buried in post-op scans or arguing with Sloan about some pointless surgical technique.

Sure enough, Derek was standing near the lightboard, flipping through brain scans, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You're staring at that like it owes you money," Jamie said as he approached.

Derek glanced up, mildly amused. "And you're here because you need something."

Jamie smirked. "It's nice to see our friendship is built on pure transactional value."

Derek crossed his arms, fully facing Jamie now. "Alright, let's hear it. What do you need?"

Jamie didn't waste time. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a worn leather-bound journal—his mother's notes—flipping to the pages he had marked earlier.

"I need Indocyanine Green dye," Jamie said, his voice steady.

Derek's eyebrows rose slightly. "You're not a neurosurgeon, Knight."

Jamie exhaled. "No, but I am assisting on an esophageal cancer resection tomorrow. And I believe the tumor has micrometastases—too small to show up on standard imaging."

Derek tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "And you think fluorescence imaging will show them?"

Jamie tapped the journal pages, where his mother had theorized using fluorescence-guided surgery for mapping tumor spread.

Derek leaned back slightly, considering. "You're talking about using ICG fluorescence-guided resection, the same way we use it in glioblastoma surgeries."

Jamie nodded. "If it works in brain tumors, it can work in esophageal tumors."

Derek exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Knight, you realize this isn't standard practice yet outside of neuro. And even in neuro, it's still experimental."

Jamie gave a ginned. "Since when do you care about playing by the rules?"

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. "And if Webber finds out I helped you with this?"

Jamie shrugged. "You were in surgery the whole time."

Derek stared at him for a long beat, then finally sighed. He turned, walked to a locked storage cabinet, and typed in the code. A few seconds later, he pulled out a small vial of ICG dye.

"You owe me," Derek said, tossing the vial to Jamie.

Jamie caught it mid-air, already tucking it into his pocket. "I'll buy you a drink."

Derek smirked. "Make it two."

------------------------------

Jamie stepped into the Seattle Grace Morgue, the air noticeably cooler and sterile, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the quiet space.

He walked purposefully toward the autopsy records, flipping through the files until he found what he was looking for—a cadaver with a history of esophageal cancer.

Name: James Calloway

Age: 67

Cause of Death: Respiratory Failure Post-Surgical Complications

Jamie exhaled. This was perfect. Same cancer type as Harold. If fluorescence imaging worked here, it meant it could work in the OR.

He rolled the tray out from the wall, the metallic clang of the gurney echoing in the stillness. Pulling on gloves, he carefully uncovered the chest and abdomen, his movements precise, methodical.

The surgical scar from Calloway's previous resection ran down his torso. It wasn't dissimilar from what Harold's would look like post-op—except Harold hadn't gone under the knife yet.

Jamie reached into his pocket, pulling out the vial of ICG dye Derek had given him earlier that morning. He held it up for a second, watching how the dark green liquid moved inside the glass.

This had to work.

He took out a small syringe, drawing a dose of the dye, and carefully injected it into the tissue surrounding the esophagus. Then, he waited.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Jamie pulled out the near-infrared scanner—a portable scope that had been used in neurosurgery trials. He powered it on, the faint humming noise filling the room as he adjusted the settings.

Taking a steady breath, he lowered the scanner over the injection site.

The screen remained dark for a moment. Then—a faint glow.

Jamie narrowed his eyes, adjusting the angle.

The tumor margins began to light up, fluorescent green against the surrounding tissue.

He exhaled sharply, shifting the scanner slightly to map the full extent. The fluorescence extended beyond the visible tumor borders, just like he had suspected.

Meaning?

Standard imaging wasn't picking up the micro-metastases.

But this was.

Jamie let out a quiet breath.

It worked.

He wasn't just theorizing anymore—he had proof.

This could change everything.

Now, he had to get it past Webber.

-------------------------------

The air in Richard Webber's office was thick with skepticism, the weight of Jamie's proposal pressing between them.

Webber sat behind his desk, arms crossed, while Miranda Bailey stood beside Jamie, arms folded just as tightly. She wasn't speaking—yet. She was letting Jamie dig his own grave first.

Jamie, however, was unfazed. He placed his mother's journal, a set of surgical notes, and the cadaver scan results on Webber's desk with deliberate precision.

"Let me get this straight," Webber said, his voice calm but carrying that edge of authority. "You want to introduce an experimental imaging technique to an esophageal cancer resection? The night before the surgery?"

Jamie nodded, completely unapologetic. "Yes."

Webber let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "You don't see a problem with this?"

Jamie didn't blink. "I see a problem with the current plan."

Bailey scoffed, but Webber stayed focused on Jamie. "Go on."

Jamie leaned forward, his hands on the desk. "Harold O'Malley wants you to remove the tumor no matter what. But if I'm right, and his cancer has micrometastasized, then there's a high chance he won't make it off the table. And even if he does, he'll have almost no chance of recovery."

Webber exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "Knight—"

Jamie cut him off. "The conventional method won't work. You know it, and I know it. The margins are too tight, the risk of organ failure too high. If we go in blind, we're sending him into surgery without a fighting chance."

Bailey shifted, but she didn't argue.

Webber tapped his fingers on his desk, considering.

Jamie didn't stop there.

"If this works, it could help a lot of people. We're talking about better tumor mapping, fewer post-op complications, increased survival rates." Jamie gestured to the papers in front of Webber. "We're already seeing clinical studies being done in neuro-oncology. If we push this forward in general surgery, the research funds alone could put Seattle Grace on the map. Publicity. Grants. More patients who want cutting-edge treatment."

Webber didn't react at first, but Jamie saw the small shift in his expression.

He was listening.

Jamie let the moment settle before delivering his final point. "Give me two days. Postpone the surgery. I'll come back with a full surgical plan. If you're still not convinced, we'll do it your way."

Webber sighed deeply, rubbing his temple again.

"This is reckless."

Jamie grinned slightly. "So was laparoscopic surgery once."

Silence.

Then Webber sighed. "Two days."

Bailey looked at Webber in surprise but didn't say anything.

Jamie nodded, glancing at his watch. The time read 10:30 a.m.

His eyes widened slightly before he straightened, suddenly shifting gears.

"Alright. Great talk," Jamie said quickly, stepping back.

Webber raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Jamie grabbed his coat off the back of the chair. "I have to go."

Bailey frowned. "Where exactly do you have to be that's more important than this?"

Jamie sighed, shaking his head as he pushed the door open.

"My jet is waiting. I'm flying to Boston for the Harper Avery Gala." He paused, giving them a flat look. "My grandmother and Catherine Avery practically cornered me into going."

Bailey blinked.

Webber just stared.

Jamie gave them one last smirk before turning toward the door.

Webber finally blinked, shaking his head. "What??"

Jamie let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair before glancing back at them.

"Yeah… apparently, Knight Holdings invested in the Avery Foundation. And for reasons I can't fathom, my grandmother is dead set on getting me to Boston."

Bailey narrowed her eyes. "And you agreed?"

Jamie scoffed. "I didn't exactly have a choice. Catherine Avery and my grandmother practically boxed me in." He shrugged. "Anyway, should be pretty interesting."

Webber was still staring at him, like he wasn't sure if this was real.

Jamie smiled slightly. "Haven't been to back to Boston since med school. And the guests should make for decent company."

The door swung shut behind Jamie, leaving Webber and Bailey in complete silence.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Bailey finally let out a short breath, shaking her head before turning to Webber.

"Knight Holdings invested in the Harper Avery Foundation?" she asked, her voice laced with undisguised disbelief.

Webber didn't answer immediately. He just rubbed his temple, looking like he was trying to process whatever the hell just happened.

Bailey scoffed. "I knew Knight was rich, but this?" She gestured vaguely toward the door Jamie had just walked through. "I thought we were talking about trust fund money, not our-name-is-on-the-building money."

Webber exhaled sharply. "You and me both."

Bailey turned to him, eyes narrowing. "You mean to tell me you didn't know about this?"

Webber just shook his head, still staring at the door like Jamie might walk back in and explain himself.

Bailey let out a dry laugh, crossing her arms. "Hmph. And here I thought Sloan was the only attending around here with a trust fund."

Webber sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "Knight isn't Sloan."

Bailey raised an eyebrow. "No kidding. Sloan wouldn't have left in the middle of a conversation just to hop on his private jet."

Webber leaned back in his chair, still looking deeply unimpressed. "You know what the worst part is?"

Bailey smirked. "That we're actually considering his insane plan?"

Webber gave her a pointed look, but he didn't deny it.

Bailey let out a long exhale, shaking her head as she turned toward the door.

"Boy better not crash that damn jet."

Webber sighed again, muttering under his breath. "Just what I need. Another surgical genius with too much money and not enough restraint."

And with that, he pushed Jamie's files aside, already knowing he wouldn't be able to focus on anything else for the rest of the damn day.

-----------------------------

Jamie walked across the private tarmac, his steps steady despite the long morning. The sleek Gulfstream jet stood waiting, its engines already humming at idle power. He barely had time to adjust his bag on his shoulder before he spotted his grandmother and Catherine Avery standing near the stairs.

His grandmother, Eleanor Knight, was the first to speak.

"Took you long enough," she said, arching a perfectly sculpted brow.

Jamie glanced at his watch, unfazed. "I still have ten minutes left."

Eleanor gave him a look that said 'technicalities don't impress me', then turned and stepped onto the jet without another word.

Catherine chuckled as she followed behind, sparing Jamie a knowing glance before disappearing inside.

Jamie shook his head before stepping up into the jet, James following closely behind.

The cabin was spacious and refined, with cream leather seats, dark mahogany accents, and a sleek modern finish. A flight attendant greeted them with a polite smile as Jamie set his bag down near one of the seats.

"Would you like something to drink, sir?"

Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Just water."

His grandmother ordered her usual tea, while Catherine asked for a glass of sparkling water.

James took his seat near the back, ever silent, ever composed.

As soon as Jamie settled in, he pulled out his mother's journals, along with the files he had gathered from his latest research. The familiar scent of aged paper and ink filled his senses as he flipped through the pages, eyes scanning over his mother's notes.

Her handwriting was sharp, precise, each line filled with the thoughts of a woman who had been years ahead of her time.

He barely noticed Catherine watching him from across the cabin.

After a moment, she spoke.

"So," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Is that what you meant earlier? About your patient?"

Jamie didn't look up right away, still reading.

Catherine watched him, studying his face carefully.

"So," she said, tilting her head slightly, "your mother figured out how to save your patient twenty years ago?"

Jamie huffed out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Not exactly. She had the right idea—she saw the problem, she even mapped out a possible solution. But back then? The technology wasn't there. What I'm doing is modifying it, using what we have now to make it work."

Catherine leaned back slightly, nodding. "Sounds just like her. She was a force of nature."

Jamie glanced up, meeting Catherine's gaze for a second before looking back at the journal. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

His grandmother, Eleanor, let out a quiet hum, her gaze soft as she stirred her tea. "Elizabeth was never satisfied with the way things were. She had to make them better. Even when no one believed she could."

Jamie exhaled, shutting the journal for a moment. "Yeah, well… looks like she was right all along."

Catherine arched a brow, intrigued. "Alright, Dr. Knight—walk me through it. What exactly are you planning?"

"The problem with esophageal cancer resections is that the margins are almost never clean. You go in, remove the tumor, but microscopic metastases slip through—too small for standard imaging. That's why recurrence rates are so high. My mother's idea was simple: map the tumor in real-time. But in 1989, fluorescence-guided imaging wasn't even a possibility outside of blood flow studies. Now? We use it in neurosurgery."

Catherine nodded slowly, her brows lifting. "So you're adapting a technique meant for brain tumors and applying it to soft tissue oncology?"

Jamie smirked slightly. "More or less. The problem is, fluorescence imaging alone won't fix our margin issue. The tumor is already infiltrating tissue—so even if I can map it perfectly, cutting into an already weakened esophagus means a high chance of perforation, hemorrhage, or anastomotic failure."

Catherine tilted her head. "Alright. So how do you prevent that?"

Jamie tapped the closed journal on his lap. "By stabilizing the tissue before I cut."

Eleanor's sharp gaze flickered toward him. "How?"

Jamie leaned forward, his hands moving as he explained, his mind running through the procedure step by step.

"There's experimental work being done with bio-compatible hydrogels in soft tissue repair. In theory, if I inject a modified hydrogel around the tumor site before I operate, I can create a structural buffer—essentially reinforcing the esophageal wall before I resect. The gel stabilizes the tissue, limits blood loss, and reduces the risk of rupture."

Catherine exhaled sharply, considering. "That's… innovative."

Jamie shook his head. "It's risky as hell."

Catherine let out a quiet chuckle. "That too." She shook her head. "Where's the hydrogel coming from? That's not something hospitals keep lying around."

Jamie stretched his legs slightly. "It's in clinical trials. But Knight Holdings has been funding biotech R&D for years—I made a few calls."

Catherine huffed out a quiet laugh. "Of course you did."

Jamie ignored the comment, his mind already working ahead. "The real problem is timing. I need to inject the hydrogel before we operate, but it can't degrade too fast or it won't provide structural support. If it stays too long, it could interfere with healing."

Catherine tilted her head, her analytical side kicking in. "And you're testing this on…"

Jamie's grin returned, slow and deliberate. "I may have taken a detour to the morgue this morning."

Eleanor let out a slow sigh, setting her tea down. "Of course you did."

Catherine, despite herself, looked genuinely impressed. "And?"

Jamie tapped the armrest. "It worked. The fluorescence dye mapped out the tumor margins clearer than anything we'd get on an MRI, and the hydrogel maintained integrity for a controlled window of time. If I tweak the concentration slightly, I can adjust the degradation rate."

Catherine shook her head in amazement, sitting back. "You're not just adapting the technique—you're evolving it."

Jamie replied. "That's the idea."

Eleanor studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a soft exhale, she said, "Your mother would be proud."

Jamie froze for half a second. He didn't react outwardly, didn't let the emotion surface, but Catherine caught the flicker of something in his eyes.

Something that wasn't just surgical focus.

Jamie exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders slightly. "We'll see."

And with that, he flipped his mother's journal open again, diving back into the notes, already refining his next step.

------------------------------

The Harper Avery Gala was everything Jamie expected it to be—grand, sophisticated, and utterly predictable.

The chandelier light glowed softly against the polished marble floors, the air filled with the subtle hum of classical music and the low murmur of polite conversations laced with ulterior motives. Investors, surgeons, hospital board members—everyone smiling a little too much, drinking just enough to be pleasant but not enough to lose composure.

Jamie had spent enough years around these people to know who was genuinely interested in medicine and who was just here for the name on the invitation.

He exhaled quietly, rolling the glass of scotch between his fingers as he leaned against the bar, his mind drifting back to Harold O'Malley's surgery.

The Plan Was There. It was the execution that would be the real challenge.

He barely heard the speech going on in the background—Catherine Avery was addressing the room, her voice smooth, confident, perfectly practiced. Something about medical innovation, research, the future of surgery. The usual.

Jamie took a slow sip of his drink, half-listening, half-distracted by the scenario playing over and over in his mind. He had two days to finalize the procedure. Two days to convince Webber. Two days to—

Someone slid onto the barstool next to him.

Jamie barely glanced over until he heard the guy order a drink.

"Whiskey, neat."

The voice was young, sure of itself, but not in the way most of the men at this gala were. It wasn't the voice of an investor or a hospital chairman.

Jamie turned his head slightly, taking in the younger man sitting beside him.

Dark curls. Sharp features. A suit that fit perfectly.

The man looked over at him, eyes narrowing slightly before he smiled.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Jamie arched a brow, finally setting his glass down. "I could say the same about you."

The man huffed out a quiet laugh, taking a sip of his drink. "True."

A beat of silence stretched between them before he turned slightly toward Jamie.

"Jackson Avery."

Jamie blinked, the name clicking instantly.

Avery. Of course.

Jamie let out a quiet exhale before extending a hand. "James Knight."

Jackson let out a quiet chuckle, nodding. "Figures."

Jamie tilted his head slightly. "That supposed to mean something?"

Jackson shrugged. "Not really. But my mom's been talking about you all week. Figured I'd run into you eventually."

Jamie huffed a quiet laugh, sipping his drink. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have a choice in being here."

"Same," Jackson muttered, swirling his drink. "Family expectations. Always a good time."

Jamie smirked knowingly. "Tell me about it."

For a moment, they both sat in comfortable silence, watching as people moved around the room, exchanging pleasantries, making their rounds.

Jamie exhaled. "You still in med school?"

Jackson nodded. "Finishing up. Few months left."

Jamie tilted his head. "What's next?"

Jackson shrugged. "Surgical residency. Not sure where yet."

Jamie hummed, glancing at him. "Harper Avery wants you at Mass Gen."

Jackson huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, he's been pushing for that since I was in undergrad."

Jamie smirked knowingly. "And you don't want it."

Jackson exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly. "I want to make my own way. I don't want to be 'Avery's grandson' everywhere I go."

Jamie studied him for a moment, seeing something familiar in that.

He knew exactly what it felt like to have a name that meant something before you even walked into a room.

Before he could say anything else, a young woman walked up to the bar, flashing a smile at them both.

She leaned forward slightly. "Can I get a martini?"

Jackson straightened up immediately, turning on the charm. "Only if you tell me your name first."

Jamie huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Jackson was smooth. He'd give him that.

Jamie pushed himself off the barstool, grabbing his glass as he stood.

Jackson glanced over. "Where are you going?"

Jamie smirked slightly. "I'll leave you to your priorities."

Jackson grinned. "You're missing out."

Jamie gave him a knowing look before turning, disappearing back into the crowd.

---------------------------

Jamie stepped outside, the cool Boston air cutting through the warmth of the gala. The bite of the wind against his skin felt sharp, waking him up more effectively than the scotch in his hand. After hours of pleasantries, polite conversation, and the ever-present hum of classical music in the background, he was more exhausted than after a 36-hour shift during residency.

The night stretched around him, the city alive beyond the stone walls of the venue. A few people mingled outside, but no one approached him. He leaned against the balcony railing, staring up at the sky. The stars were barely visible against the city's glow, but he focused on them anyway, letting the silence settle over him.

Then, a chill ran through him. He exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

Still not used to the cold.

That thought stirred something in him—a memory, sharp and unexpected.

"It's not. You're just not used to it."

Her voice was clear in his head, like she was standing right next to him again.

Lexie.

Jamie could still see her across from him at that tiny outdoor table, the soft glow of fairy lights strung above them. The taco stall had been warm, the scent of grilled meat and spices filling the air, but outside, the night had been cold. He had rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the chill, while she had smirked at him over her food.

"New York has pretty cold winters," she had pointed out.

"Yeah, it does." Jamie had exhaled, adjusting his jacket. "But I haven't been back in years."

She hadn't pushed. Hadn't asked why. Just nodded, taking another bite, letting the conversation move forward without demanding anything from him.

That night had been easy. No expectations, no weight of his name, his career, or his responsibilities. Just a stranger who had somehow felt familiar before he even knew her name.

Jamie glanced down at his phone, rolling it between his fingers.

He hadn't spoken to her in a while. Between O'Malley's case, the endless nights at the hospital, and now this gala, time had slipped by faster than he'd realized.

Now, he was here. In Boston.

She was here, too.

Maybe he should call.

Ask if she wanted to meet up.

Maybe he just wanted to hear her voice.

Jamie pulled up her number, his thumb hovering over the call button.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Would she even want to see him?

Before he could decide, his phone buzzed in his hand.

A number he didn't recognize flashed across the screen.

Jamie frowned, debating whether to answer. A hospital? A colleague? Someone from Knight Holdings?

Still, something made him press the button.

"Knight."

A brief pause. Then a voice—familiar, hesitant.

"Jamie?"

His breath stilled.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

Lexie.