The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and quiet regret.

Gary sat in one of the plastic chairs, knees bouncing despite his best efforts to appear calm. The room was decorated in that aggressively neutral style designed to offend no one while comforting absolutely nobody. Leaflets about gum disease sat fanned out on a low table, each one seeming to whisper this could have been avoided.

He glanced at the clock. Too early. Of course he was early. He’d arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule, fuelled by nerves and a deep mistrust of public transport. Now he had nothing to do but sit with his thoughts, which was never ideal.

His jaw throbbed faintly. Not enough to panic. Just enough to remind him why he was here.

This was the chair. The lights. The moment he usually fled.

Gary shifted in his seat and told himself not to leave. Leaving would be easy. Leaving was practically muscle memory. He imagined himself standing up, walking out, and telling everyone later that he’d definitely gone and it had all been fine.

Instead, he stayed.

A door opened down the corridor. A nurse called a name that was not his. Gary exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly, then immediately tensed again when he realised that was only a temporary reprieve.

His phone buzzed.

You’ve got this.

Gary stared at the message, then typed back.

If I don’t, please tell my story.

A smiley face appeared almost instantly.

That helped. More than he wanted to admit.

He folded his hands together, grounding himself. This wasn’t punishment. This was maintenance. That was the phrase she’d used. Maintenance. Like servicing a car. Or a boiler. Necessary. Unavoidable.

The door opened again.

“Gary?”

His heart jumped.

He stood.

This was it.

Follow the nurse inside → Page 62

Leave and spiral privately → Page 71