Under the hum of fluorescent lights, Aoi rolled up the sleeves of her white coat.
She was in her early twenties, her shoulder-length black hair tied back carelessly, a pair of slim-framed glasses perched lightly on her nose. A faint scar from a childhood fall peeked through the thin layer of makeup on her cheek. Her fingers were slender, nails clipped short, steeped in the sharp scent of disinfectant.
The dental clinic was near-silent, save for the occasional low drone of the air conditioning. The clock read two in the morning, and Aoi was alone in the empty treatment room, polishing instruments.
The stainless steel tray gleamed, tools clinking rhythmically in her hands as they caught the light.
Scaler, probe, mirror—she wiped each one meticulously, setting them into the sterilizer.
She liked these late-night shifts. No daytime bustle, no patients' anxious breaths. Just the metallic chime of instruments and the steady cadence of her own breathing.
But tonight, the air in the treatment room felt heavy, charged with something strange. Beyond the window, darkness swallowed the world, the glass reflecting only her silhouette and the stark white wall behind her.
Still, something flickered at the edge of her vision.
Aoi paused, lifting the dental mirror. She glanced at her reflection, then scanned the space behind her.
Empty.
She exhaled softly, ready to resume her work, when the leather of the dental chair creaked. She spun around. The chair was vacant, but the headrest was tilted slightly off from where she'd last set it.
Aoi's brow furrowed. She knew this clinic inside out—every chair angle, every tool's place, every drop of disinfectant. Even the smallest deviation grated on her.
"Anyone there?"
Her voice sliced through the silence. No answer. But from the corridor, near the sterilization room, came a faint drip. Like a faucet left barely open, a steady trickle.
Aoi set the tray down, peeled off her gloves, and stuffed them into her pocket. Grabbing her phone as a makeshift flashlight, she stepped into the corridor. The fluorescent light cast her shadow long and cold.
The sterilization room door stood ajar, the interior dark. The dripping continued, steady and rhythmic. Drip, drip, drip—like a heartbeat.
Aoi pushed the door open and flicked on her phone's light. The beam slid across the sterilizer's surface, landing on the sink. There, a liquid dripped from the faucet, pooling into a small red stain at the bottom.
Not water. Blood.
Her throat tightened. As a dental hygienist, Aoi was no stranger to blood—oozing from extractions, inflamed gums, or careless bites. But this was different. Scattered along the sink's edge were tiny, jagged fragments of teeth.
Not human. Unnaturally small, razor-sharp.
She stepped back, and the air behind her shifted. Before she could turn, a cold sensation grazed her neck—metallic, wet, like saliva. She whipped her phone up, light cutting through the dark. Nothing. But on the floor, a thin thread of blood-laced saliva snaked across the tiles.
Her pulse surged. The clinic should be empty. She managed the locks; the security was airtight. Yet the trail of blood stretched toward the treatment room.
Gripping her phone, Aoi followed it.
Back in the treatment room, something stirred on the chair. She aimed her light and froze. A flap of pink tissue—gum-like—writhed on the leather, crawling like a living thing. Fine veins pulsed across its surface, throbbing.
Her stomach churned. She'd assisted in gum grafts before; those were dead tissue. This was alive, slithering, trying to wedge itself into the chair's seams.
"What is this…?"
Her voice trembled. The tissue stilled, as if hearing her, then slowly turned. Its web of veins seemed to stare at her, like eyes.
Aoi stumbled back, her shoulder hitting the wall. A tile behind her clattered to the floor. She glanced back. Embedded in the tile's underside were teeth—human molars, canines, incisors—arranged chaotically, glistening with saliva. From between them, a thin, tongue-like tendril reached out, brushing her neck.
Aoi screamed and bolted from the room. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, but the tiles beneath her softened, sinking. She stopped, aiming her light downward. Red, fleshy tissue—like gums—oozed from beneath the tiles, coiling around her shoes.
She kicked off her shoes and ran barefoot. Sterilization room, waiting area, reception—everywhere, teeth and flesh sprouted from walls and floors. The clinic felt like a vast, hungry mouth closing around her.
She vaulted onto the reception counter, yanking open drawers for the exit key. Instead of keys, she found piles of extracted teeth, squirming, snapping at her fingers. She shook them off and leapt down.
Then she caught her reflection in the waiting room mirror—and froze.
From her mouth dangled an impossibly long tongue. At its tip, tiny teeth sprouted, writhing.