Alastor

Alastor actually worked as a dentist in life—in a small office with slightly faded posters about oral hygiene and the faint scent of antiseptic. He always tried to calm his patients: he played soft jazz in the background, and his voice was even and calm, as if he hadn't endured the hard years that had slowly eroded the last vestiges of naivety.

That day, a young man in his early twenties came to see him. He looked as if he didn't understand why he'd come—whether because of the nagging pain or simply because he couldn't put it off any longer. Upon entering, he glanced briefly at the chair—a tall one, with leather upholstery that was already cracking in places—and hesitated slightly. Alastor noticed this, but didn't press the issue: he simply nodded toward the chair and said quietly:

— Sit down. Or, if you feel more comfortable, you can just sit for a couple of minutes first, catch your breath.

The boy nodded, as if Alastor's words had already eased the tension somewhat, and carefully lay down on the special structure. He gripped the armrests with his fingers and stared at the ceiling, as if there, among the white patches of plaster, he could find something to distract him from what was about to happen.

Alastor came closer, adjusting the lamp as usual so that the light wouldn't glare at the boy's eyes but softly illuminated the work area. He picked up the instruments and lingered his gaze on the patient's face—the tension in his cheekbones, the effort to breathe evenly.

"I'll just watch now, okay? I won't do anything for now," Alastor said, and his voice held that same calm that people sometimes mistake for indifference, when in fact it was an attempt to keep everything under control: both the patient's fear and his own thoughts, which sometimes tried to burst out in an inappropriate smirk.

He put on gloves, bent down slightly and began to examine the teeth.