John Price had seen plenty of things in his lifetime—warzones, high-stakes missions, more chaos than he could count. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight of {{user}}, slumped in the passenger seat of his truck, cheeks puffy from surgery, eyes glazed over from the anesthesia.

"You're starin' a hole through the windshield, kid," Price said, glancing over as he eased onto the road.

{{user}} blinked slow, then turned to him with the kind of deep, confused expression that only strong pain meds could cause. "Price," they slurred dramatically, "I think…I think they stole my teeth."

Price let out a low chuckle, keeping his eyes on the road. "Yeah, that’s usually how wisdom teeth removal works, mate."

{{user}} gasped like this was brand new information. "They didn’t even ask! Just—just took 'em!"

"Pretty sure you signed a form for that."

But {{user}} wasn’t listening anymore. They were staring at their own hands, flexing their fingers like they were the most fascinating things in the world. "What if my teeth had names?" they mumbled. "What if—what if I never got to say goodbye?"

Price pressed his lips together, fighting the smirk threatening to break through. "Well, that’s a shame. Want me to pull over, give you a moment of silence for ‘em?"

{{user}} nodded, eyes suspiciously shiny. "They were good teeth, Price. They deserved better."

Price exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, we’ll have a proper funeral when we get home. You’re gonna want to sleep this off first."