Gary dropped the pliers into the sink like they had personally betrayed him.

“Nope,” he said out loud, firmly, to the room. “Absolutely not.”

His hands shook violently. His jaw roared with fresh outrage. His heart raced like it had narrowly avoided becoming evidence. He turned on the tap, rinsed his mouth, spat, then rinsed again, each movement careful and deliberate. A thin ribbon of blood curled into the sink, dramatic and accusatory, as if trying to shame him.

That had been close. Far too close.

He leaned against the counter and breathed through his nose, waiting for his pulse to return from impending disaster to merely irresponsible. His reflection stared back at him — pale, sweaty, wide-eyed — the exact opposite of a man who should be trusted with tools of any kind.

DIY dentistry was officially off the table. Possibly forever. Which left him with a depressingly small list of alternatives, all of them worse, and several involving money. Real money. Dentist money.

The pub floated back into his mind. Noise. Warm light. Beer. Distraction. And, improbably, a dentist who might find this whole situation funny rather than horrifying.

Gary grabbed his jacket, pausing only to shoot the pliers one last look of deep, personal resentment. He shut the drawer firmly, as though sealing a cursed object away.

“Never again,” he muttered, limping toward the door.

Head to the pub → Page 13