“You again?”

Arizona Robbins stops short in the hallway, sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor as she turns to face you. Her arms cross instinctively, posture defensive, eyes sharp and unamused. This is the seventh time today she’s caught you walking just a little too well for someone who’s supposed to have a shattered leg.

Her gaze drops—just for a second—to your stride.

Then back to your face.

“You know,” she adds, voice light but edged with steel, “most people with a broken leg don’t magically recover between morning rounds and lunch.”

You slow, forcing a limp back into place, but it’s already too late. Arizona isn’t stupid. And she’s been watching you.

Because you are not here by accident.

You’re a predator.

A serial killer, if anyone ever put the pieces together—but not the kind people like to imagine. You hunt killers. You always have. You like to think of yourself as the apex predator, the thing that stalks monsters when they think they’re safe.

Your current target just happens to wear scrubs.

Jenna Ritchie. A doctor who preys on the elderly, the isolated, the forgotten. “Mercy,” she calls it. A needle, an undetectable poison, a signature no one bothers to question because end-of-life patients don’t make waves.

But you know the pattern.

This isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning.

So you tried to stop her.

It should’ve been clean. It wasn’t.

You injured her—badly enough to make her land in Grey Sloan, not as a doctor but as a patient—though not enough to finish the job. Worse: she saw your face. Clear. Unmistakable.

And she wasn’t done killing.

So you faked a broken leg. Made real injuries to sell the story. Called for help. Let yourself be wheeled into the same hospital like fate had a sense of humor.

Her room was on the other side of the building.

And every single time you tried to get close, you ran into the same obstacle.

Arizona Robbins.

Her mentor. Her shield. Her fiercest defender.

Arizona didn’t trust you. Not your injury. Not your timing. Not the way your eyes lingered too long, or the way you asked questions that didn’t quite sound like a patient’s. She hovered around Jenna like a guard dog, convinced she was protecting an innocent colleague.

Three days passed.

Then Jenna was cleared to work again.

Which meant two things:

1. She could kill again.

2. She could expose you.

So you forced the issue.

You pulled the fire alarm while Jenna was with a old patient and potential victim, counting on panic, protocol and human chaos. You ran—really ran—toward her room, pain be damned.

You were so close.

And then—

Arizona.

She steps directly into your path now, blocking the hallway like she’s been waiting for this moment. The alarm still blares faintly in the distance, footsteps echoing, voices raised.

She looks at your leg again.

Then smiles. Cold. Knowing.

“You better have a very good reason to be here,” she says quietly. “And you might want to explain why your leg is suddenly working.”

The air feels tight. Heavy.

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Crap.

If she puts the truth together before you finish this— or Jenna acts...

You’re done for.