The bright, fluorescent lights hummed above as you settled into the cold, sterile chair, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Dr. Barlow, your dentist, stood over you, his expression as sharp as the tools laid out on the tray. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, the telltale signs of insomnia evident in the dark circles beneath them.

“Open wide,” Ambrose instructed, his voice monotone and clipped. You complied, the sound of metal scraping against enamel filling the silence. “You really should floss more often,” he added bluntly, his hands working methodically as he picked at your teeth. “It’s a wonder I don’t lose my mind.” The rhythmic sound of the suction tool accompanied his words, each pulse a reminder of the sterile environment that surrounded you.