Gary yanked.

For one glorious, idiotic heartbeat, it felt like progress. There was resistance, then movement — the intoxicating sensation of something finally giving way. The kind of feedback that convinces deeply unqualified men that they were right all along.

Then reality arrived and punched him directly in the soul.

The pain wasn’t sharp so much as total. A catastrophic system failure that tore through his jaw, his skull, and every questionable life decision that had led him to this bathroom. His knees buckled instantly. The mirror blurred into an abstract smear of colour. Gary screamed, though later nobody would be able to verify this, as there was nobody present and the neighbours already disliked him.

The pliers slipped.

Blood flooded his mouth — far too much, far too fast — hot, metallic, and profoundly alarming. It tasted like panic. He gagged violently, which somehow made the situation worse. Much worse. The floor tilted. The sink seemed very far away.

Gary staggered backward, dropped the pliers, and clutched the basin with both hands as the room spun. His heart hammered like it was attempting to escape responsibility entirely. Each beat sent another wave of agony and dizziness crashing through him.

This was not bravery.

This was not even stupidity with ambition.

This was a man discovering, far too late, the practical difference between DIY and criminal negligence.

He slid down the cabinet, leaving a dark smear he would absolutely never get his deposit back for. His thoughts came apart into useless fragments. He wondered, briefly, whether dentists had a specific technical term for this scenario. He wondered whether it was rude to die in a rented flat. He wondered if the pub chat would miss him.

Then the pain stopped.

Not eased.

Not dulled.

Stopped.

Gary tipped sideways, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, vision narrowing to a tunnel. His final coherent thought was that perhaps reading one forum post hadn’t counted as proper research after all.