My tooth started hurting.

  A molar, lower right side.

  I couldn't eat or sleep for two days straight.

  I should have dealt with it long ago — but I kept putting it off.

  Sometimes it was about saving money, sometimes I just drowned myself in work.

  That morning, I started looking for a clinic nearby.

  First and foremost — I checked the prices.

  Because lately, I’ve been working like a damned horse — and still, the money isn't enough.

  I guess I’m not the only one.

  On the third page of my search results, I saw an ad: "Affordable dental procedures."

  No clinic name, no fancy design — just a number and an address.

  I called.

  “Hello?”

  A man’s voice. Rough. Hollow.

  “Good day. I... I saw the ad. Toothache.”

  “Need it pulled out?” he asked. No “doctor,” no “appointment,” no pleasantries.

  “It hurts badly... there was a filling.”

  “Come now.”

  Click. Silence.

  And I went.

  Because the prices at other clinics bit harder than the slimy feeling that call left me with.

  I had never noticed that right across from my building were those doors.

  An office with a simple sheet of paper taped to the glass: "Dental Office."

  Printed on a plain A4 sheet.

  Already then I should have turned around and left.

  But I walked in.

  The dentist — a man around forty.

  Seemed like it was him I spoke with on the phone.

  Without a word, he pushed me into the chair.

  Checked my teeth, my gums.

  Blinded me with a harsh lamp.

  “The filling’s rotted. Bone’s infected. Needs cleaning. Pulling. Implant. You want it?”

  “What’s the price? You don’t have any info on your site...” I asked, as he pulled a cold, slightly sticky tool from my mouth.

  “Got some experimental implants. Cheaper than the usual. But a bit more painful.

  Cleaning, prosthetic production, installation — four thousand. You want it?”

  I nodded.

  And after that, I kept coming back for the appointments he scheduled.

  Sometimes I doubted it.

  Then — the shooting pain in my jaw reminded me.

  The throbbing deep in the bone.

  I checked other clinics’ prices again.

  Made up my mind: to get rid of the bad tooth, to fix everything once and for all.

  A week of procedures — and the implant arrived.

  Looked just like an ordinary tooth.

  The installation was truly painful.

  I tried to endure it to the limit, just to save money on anesthesia.

  But eventually, I gave in.

  The dentist drove the needle into my gums.

  Careless. Like he was hammering a board.

  My eyes squeezed out a few thick tears instantly.

  The sharp metal pierced my flesh, kept going deeper and deeper.

  It hurt.

  It twisted inside me.

  And — under my facial skin, an itching started.

  As if something else was growing into me along with the implant.

  "Don’t eat, don’t drink for three hours. Don’t touch it with your hands."

  "I understand. When should I come back?"

  "Don’t come back. It won’t fall out. That’s it."

  I paid the mysterious dentist what I owed.

  Then I listened to my body, expecting something to go wrong.

  But the implant didn’t fall out.

  It held tight.

  Looked good.

  It rooted itself deep into the flesh.

  It began to grow.

  Over the next few days, I went back to work — finishing the last projects for my client.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The jaw barely ached anymore.

  Only itched. Constantly.

  As if from the inside.

  Maybe it was just the anesthetic wearing off.

  Or maybe the implant was still settling in.

  Then something started happening to my tongue.

  Everything I ate left a taste of metal.

  Other tastes disappeared.

  Only cold, sticky iron remained on the tip of my tongue.

  It reminded me of the strange dentist’s tools.

  And then came the first tearing.

  That’s what I call it — the first time it happened.

  And what continued after.

  The taste of wet metal on my lips.

  Absolute bliss.

  I was riding the subway.

  Picked up a flash drive with important data from a colleague — we hung out a bit afterward.

  Sitting there, listening to music, mindlessly scrolling through social media —

  and then I saw it when I glanced up.

  A prosthetic.

  A black hand.

  It found my gaze as if by itself.

  The man looked about thirty.

  Riding alone, just a small bag resting on his lap.

  Harmless.

  My heart instantly pounded.

  Excitement surged through me.

  My lips dried out, my breath caught.

  All my attention was drawn to the smooth surface of the implant.

  The man lifted his head.

  Our eyes met.

  And I knew what I wanted.

  Desperately.

  To the point of trembling.

  A filthy tingling in my gums.

  ...To slowly run my tongue along the carbon mount and suck out the leftover blood...

  Heat along my spine.

  A white fog before my eyes — and then a corpse, lying in a pool of blood.

  I came to in someone else’s apartment.

  Gripping a black prosthetic hand.

  My muscles screamed.

  My knuckles were torn.

  My shirt was ripped.

  Blood smeared the walls, the beige carpet, the windows.

  It tasted like iron.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  I gnawed.

  And I was in ecstasy.

  I remembered nothing afterward.

  I left that stranger’s home, not even bothering to close the door.

  Somehow made it back to my own apartment —

  in filthy clothes, with a foreign prosthetic clenched in my mouth.

  I dove under my blanket and stayed there the whole next day.

  Gnawing at the implant.

  The crunchy pieces of the carefully engineered hand hitting against my newly placed tooth —

  brought an incredible satisfaction.

  I kept hunting people with prosthetics.

  It happened on its own.

  My mind would switch into another mode whenever I spotted an artificial limb.

  Or a crutch.

  Or a wheelchair.

  ...I want to bite off a chunk of flesh and see what’s inside.

  White and boring?

  Or something metallic, intriguing?

  Or maybe — plastic?

  Sweet, salty.

  Perfect.

  The second tearing happened in a train station bathroom.

  I picked up a hobby: wandering through crowded places.

  Watching.

  I realized she had a prosthetic eye.

  An old woman, dragging a suitcase on wheels.

  We descended together, soon passing the bathrooms.

  She must have been rushing for a commuter train.

  No cameras here — for a short moment, we were alone.

  A red flash.

  I released the old woman’s neck.

  My fingers white from the force of my grip.

  Her glassy eye almost popped out from the pressure, wobbling enticingly, begging to be tasted.

  I plucked it out.

  Placed it in my mouth.

  Slowly chewed it — like the fizzy candies from childhood.

  Tiny shards of the prosthetic drove me to moan.

  The leftovers of a once-living woman — a special seasoning for the plastic.

  At work, I started taking only half the usual load.

  I didn’t keep the prosthetics.

  I chewed them to bits.

  Shuddered in pleasure when my human teeth began to turn into something harder and sharper.

  A harsher, paler, more predatory face stared back from the mirror.

  It demanded more.

  I didn’t feel guilty about anything.

  Because I remembered nothing.

  Only the aftermath.

  And the taste on my lips.

  And I knew, clearly, that the implants needed to be torn from living flesh.

  It was the only way.

  As time passed, the city began whispering about brutal killings of the disabled.

  But I wasn’t worried.

  Because I had changed.

  My hands grew stronger.

  My movements — more confident.

  I acted smarter.

  Started sucking the implants straight from the victims —

  like squeezing the last sweet drops from a paper juice box.

  Once, I passed the "affordable dental office."

  Its door was slightly open.

  I could have walked in anytime.

  Forced the strange doctor to explain everything.

  At least — to apologize for what they had turned me into.

  I almost stepped inside —

  but stopped.

  Because it didn’t matter.

  Because that dentist didn’t have any prosthetics in his body.

  And therefore — he didn’t interest me.

  I keep thinking about fully freeing myself.

  Maybe getting a job in a care facility.

  Someplace for amputees.

  There are several rehab centers in the city.

  Those poor souls didn’t even know yet how much they needed my touch.

  My gentle care.

  Today, I’ll call every care home in Kyiv.

  I’ll be convincing.

  Charming.

  And I won't forget about regular elderly homes either.

  Even without implants.

  Because prosthetics — they’re just a beginning.

  And I think I already know...

  how human bones will taste.