Cristina Yang never doubted for a second that she would be hired.

She walked out of that interview like she had already won—because she had. Burke could test her, challenge her, make her jump through unnecessary hoops, but in the end, there was no denying it.

She belonged at Seattle Grace.

And now, with her brand-new ID badge clipped onto her coat, she was officially a surgical resident.

Game on.

The hospital was alive with noise—monitors beeping, footsteps echoing down the halls, voices calling out orders. Chaos. Cristina thrived in chaos. Long shifts, high stress, no sleep? That was home. That was where she was at her best.

But then she walked into the locker room.

And immediately regretted it.

There were people. Too many people. And worse—talking people.

A tall, blonde woman stood by an open locker, meticulously folding her scrubs. Like she was organizing a display at a department store. Cristina side-eyed her. Who does that? Who had the time?

The blonde looked up and smiled—like an actual, functioning, social human being.

"Hey! I'm Izzie."

Cristina blinked. "Okay."

Izzie's smile faltered slightly. "And you are…?"

Cristina tossed her bag into an empty locker and started changing. "Busy."

From the other side of the room, a cocky-looking guy let out a short laugh. He was leaning against the wall like he owned the place, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

"Wow," he drawled. "Real ray of sunshine, this one."

Cristina turned, unimpressed. "And you are?"

"Alex Karev." His smirk widened. "You can just call me Alex, though."

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Hard pass."

Another guy, shorter, softer, nervous-looking, stepped forward like he was about to introduce himself at some polite business meeting.

"I'm George," he said, extending a hand.

Cristina just stared at it.

"…Great," she said, making no move to shake it. George awkwardly lowered his hand. "Right. Okay. Cool."

Izzie shot him a sympathetic look before turning back to Cristina. "You must be the other new resident."

"Yeah," Cristina said, pulling on her scrub top. "And I'd love to keep this fascinating conversation going, but I have to go be better than all of you now."

Alex let out another laugh. "Oh, she's definitely gonna be fun." Before Cristina could respond with something sharp, the locker room door swung open, and a familiar face walked in.

Meredith Grey.

The same blonde who had sat beside her during the interview, who had looked way too nervous for someone with Ellis Grey's DNA. Meredith stopped mid-step, eyes widening slightly as she took in the room full of new faces. Her gaze landed on Cristina, and a slow, knowing smile formed.

"You."

Cristina smirked. "Me."

Izzie perked up. "Oh, you two know each other?" Meredith tossed her bag into a locker. "Sort of."

"Fate," Alex said, smirking. "Or bad luck, depending on how you look at it."

Cristina ignored him, turning back to Meredith. "So, did you throw up before the interview?" Meredith scoffed, pulling on her scrub top. "No. Barely."

Cristina nodded approvingly. "Impressive."

George, still looking vaguely overwhelmed by all the new personalities, cleared his throat. "Uh, so, anyone else terrified?"

Meredith exhaled. "Oh, absolutely."

Cristina smirked. "Not even a little."

Alex smirked. "Of course not. Ice queen over here probably thrives on fear."

Cristina raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Before anyone could respond, the door swung open again.

And in walked Miranda Bailey.

Her reputation preceded her—The Nazi, as some of the older residents whispered. Small but terrifying. Efficient. Ruthless. Everything Cristina could appreciate in a surgeon.

Bailey's eyes scanned the room before she exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed.

"Alright, you lot, listen up."

Everyone immediately straightened.

Dr. Miranda Bailey stood before them, arms crossed, her expression the perfect balance of unimpressed and mildly irritated.

"I know you're all very pleased with yourselves for making it into the program, but let me be clear—you are not brilliant. You are not special. You are not God's gift to surgery. What you are is a bunch of newly minted residents who barely know how to function without someone holding your hand."

Cristina resisted the urge to smirk. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

Bailey continued, voice steady and sharp. "Dr. Burke has asked me to make sure you all know how this hospital runs, which means I am your tour guide, your rulebook, and—if necessary—your worst nightmare." She let the words hang before adding, "This is your first day as residents. That means no one is going to spoon-feed you anymore. You have an intern logging your patient vitals, interns wanting to learn from you. Interns crying for their mama. You are the mama. You are in charge. You make the decisions. And when something goes wrong? It's your name on the chart."

Izzie swallowed. George looked vaguely nauseous.

Bailey went on. "We start with rounds. You will each be responsible for your assigned patients. You will know their charts inside and out. When an attending asks you a question, you will have the correct answer. If you don't, you'd better learn how to fake confidence while you go find it. And when you scrub in for surgery, you'd better be ready—because unlike last year, no one is going to stop and explain things to you."

Her first week was brutal.

The hours were long, the cases relentless, and the expectations impossibly high. But Cristina thrived under pressure. She worked harder, studied longer, and made damn sure that no attending, not even Burke, had a single reason to doubt her.

Still, she couldn't ignore one thing. Burke was harder on her.

If there was an extra task to be done, he assigned it to her. If there was a complicated case, she got the grunt work. If there was an impossible surgical technique to master, he expected her to learn it yesterday.

And she was fine with that. She didn't need things to be easy. She wasn't here to be coddled. She was here to be the best. But that didn't mean she wasn't getting a little sick of it.

Cristina was reviewing a patient chart when she spotted Burke down the hall, mid-conversation with another attending.

Perfect.

She closed the chart with a snap and walked over, standing just close enough for him to acknowledge her but not close enough to be dismissed immediately.

When he didn't turn right away, she cleared her throat. Loudly. Burke exhaled through his nose and finally looked at her. "Dr. Yang."

Cristina met his gaze head-on. "I need a consult."

Burke gave her a long look. "For?"

"A 42-year-old male, post-op from an open cholecystectomy three days ago. He's hypotensive, tachycardic, and his H is dropping. I think he's bleeding somewhere, but the scans are inconclusive."

Burke studied her, expression unreadable. "And you've ruled out other causes?"

"Yes."

"IV fluids?"

"Already started."

"Repeat imaging?"

"Ordered."

Burke nodded slightly, like he approved of her work—but, of course, he didn't say that. Instead, he handed the chart back to her. "Sounds like you've got it under control."

Cristina clenched her jaw. She hated this. Hated that she'd come to him thinking he'd have some genius answer, some perfect next step that she hadn't thought of. Hated that she'd hit a wall and needed him.

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight slightly. "I've done everything I can think of, and I still don't know what's wrong."

Burke raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

Cristina crossed her arms, shifting her weight slightly. "I've done everything I can think of, and I still don't know what's wrong."

Burke raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

Cristina bristled. "Do you have an answer, or are you just enjoying this?"

Burke's expression remained unreadable, but there was something too deliberate about the way he glanced at her. "Interesting."

Cristina narrowed her eyes. "What's interesting?"

Burke closed the chart with a soft thud. "You said in your interview that you were the best surgical resident at the moment." He looked at her, perfectly calm. "Yet here you are, coming to me because you don't know something."

Cristina clenched her jaw. "I didn't say I know everything. I said I'm the best."

Burke nodded slowly. "And yet… you're still here."

Cristina inhaled sharply. "Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there repeating my words back at me?"

Burke glanced at the chart again, then met her gaze. "Let's go see the patient."

Cristina turned on her heel, walking ahead. But she could still feel Burke watching her, like he knew exactly what had just happened.

And that only annoyed her more.

The consult went smoothly. Burke had barely needed to say anything—Cristina had been right, and she knew it.

She ran through the patient's symptoms, laid out her assessment, and then waited. Waited for him to contradict her, to challenge her, to push back the way he always did.

He didn't.

Instead, he simply glanced at her, nodded slightly, and said, "Good work."

That was it. No smugness. No unnecessary challenge. Just two simple words.

Cristina should have felt satisfied. She wanted to feel satisfied. But instead, she found herself studying him, searching for some hidden layer of meaning. Because this wasn't just about the patient anymore. It was about him.

The way he made her work harder than the others. The way he assigned her extra tasks. The way he expected more.

And the worst part? The part that really got under her skin?

She was rising to it. So when she caught him in the hallway between rounds, she didn't hesitate.

"You're making me work harder than the others."

Burke barely glanced at her, flipping through a chart. "You want to be the best, don't you?"

Cristina narrowed her eyes. "I am the best."

This time, Burke did look up. He studied her, quiet, as if measuring something she couldn't quite see. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smirk.

"Then prove it."

Cristina exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. "I just did."

Burke tilted his head slightly, considering her. He wasn't dismissing her. He wasn't mocking her. He was assessing her.

"Did you?" he asked, his voice calm.

Cristina scoffed. "I just ran through that entire case, and you didn't correct me once."

Burke nodded once. "True." He closed the chart with an infuriatingly composed motion, slipping it under his arm. "But you still came to me first."

Cristina's jaw tightened. "I—" She stopped herself.

Burke watched her reaction, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, just as smoothly, he turned slightly, adjusting his sleeve with practiced ease.

"Something to think about."

Cristina exhaled sharply. "Unbelievable." She turned, ready to walk away, but before she could take a step, his voice followed her—calm, measured, and just amused enough to make her grit her teeth.

"Oh, and about that coffee…"

Cristina shut her eyes for half a second. "Seriously?"

Burke lifted a shoulder in an effortless shrug, his tone almost casual. "A deal's a deal." There was something infuriatingly settled about the way he said it. Like he had never once doubted she'd hold up her end.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But just one." Burke's smirk deepened, but his expression wasn't just smug, it was satisfied. Like he had figured something out before she had.

"We'll see," he murmured.

Cristina turned on her heel, moving fast before he could say anything else, before he could look at her like that again. Because if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was this: She hated being predictable.

And Burke?

He was starting to expect her.