6

Paris, France (6 months earlier)

The sensation of a presence woke Dr. Marchand. Battling the onset of a migraine, he resolved to sit up. Despite the ambient dimness, he immediately recognized the waiting room of his practice on Avenue Marceau. Resting on the edge of the couch, the unusual silence that reigned struck him.

Paris is a noisy city, especially in this part of the eighth arrondissement, just a stone's throw from the Champs Élysées. The immense roundabout of the Arc de Triomphe, where the avenue began, brought a constant hum of mechanical sounds to the windows of the luxurious office. Three lanes unwound at the foot of the bourgeois building, each separated by a straight line of plane trees. Despite these green attractions and the elitism of the surrounding properties, this posh artery paid in decibels for its proximity to "the most beautiful avenue in the world."

Even on the top floor and with double-glazed windows, the orthodontist was accustomed to this continuous hum that only a slight background music could subtract from his patients' ears. For now, no music was playing, and yet the external buzzing remained discreet. This could only mean one thing: night had fallen, and the capital's traffic was minimal.

Disoriented, the dentist stood up, stiff and undecided. He did not live in this building. He had always made it a point to separate his home from his workplace and therefore had no reason to spend the night here. Hand on his forehead, he tried to regain his senses and dispel the headache that was drilling into his temples.

He looked at his watch, which read, "1:17." Surprised, he frowned. But what was he doing here? Memory began to come back to him, and it only made him more confused.

Indeed, he remembered finishing his day with a particularly challenging patient, whose implant he had to adjust for the eleventh time. The practitioner accepted this kind of behavior. His global renown earned him a select clientele, often demanding, always in search of discretion. He had redone the smiles of many French and foreign celebrities, but also of less publicly known personalities, albeit just as wealthy, like his last patient, Madame Rossi De-La-Motte-Bréviaire.

After the multimillionaire heiress had slipped out through the inner courtyard where her limousine awaited her, the dentist remembered parting his office, leaving the closure of the practice to his plethora of employees. No doubt about his actions, his memory related them to him with clarity. He had then walked home to the rue de Longchamp in the 16th arrondissement, a few blocks away. He had dined alone in his apartment with a terrace overlooking Dauphine University, close to the Bois de Boulogne. Taking advantage of the school holidays and his wife and daughters' getaway to Tunis, he had reappropriated the place.

After finishing his meal, he had watched a pornographic movie from his private collection, then reached his bedroom where he had ... done what exactly?

Mr. Marchand got up to fetch a bottle of mineral water from the mini bar at the reception. He completely forgot what had occurred after entering his bedroom a few hours earlier.

Disturbed, the dentist tried to collect his thoughts and understand what was happening to him when suddenly a ringtone sounded. Surprised, he almost dropped his small drink and caught it just in time. A few drops fell on the counter. He eventually recognized the melody of his mobile phone now chiming insistently.

He placed his bottle next to the empty glass he wanted to fill, decided to finally turn on the light, and searched for his device. He found it in the inner pocket of his jacket hanging on the entrance coat rack. On the screen, a text message read: "U av a nU ptient." Unaccustomed to this writing, the dentist squinted without understanding. He had to enunciate out loud to decipher its meaning: "You ... have ... a ... new ... patient," he articulated, stumbling over the words.

At the height of incomprehension, he instinctively turned towards the door that led to his office, and from there, to the treatment room. A faint glow shone under the threshold. His mobile still in hand, he approached the door and opened it cautiously. Sitting in his chair, bathed in light coming from the treatment room whose door stayed wide open, a very tall and extremely thin man watched him. The dentist met the cold gaze of his strange visitor. Eyes bulging with irises so pale that their outlines barely showed. Making the black hole of the pupils look like the eyeballs were just pierced towards the darkest of souls. The doctor suppressed a movement of fright and dropped his handset.

"Careful with that," warned the man with a strong American accent. He pointed to the mobile—apparently intact—that had bounced on the parquet floor and added: "It's fragile."

"Who... Who are you, what do you want from me?" stammered the dentist.

"I told you... New patient..."

He indicated the door from which the light was coming, and Marchand mechanically followed the gesture with his gaze. In the room, he saw an arm dangling along the luxurious chair.

"I don't..." began Marchand, uneasy.

"He requires your expertise."

The albino pulled back his lips and pointed to his teeth with his index finger.

"He needs them all changed."

"But, but..."

"Don't worry. I made the mold myself. You just have to make him this set of pearly whites." The man pushed towards the orthodontist two gray-blue blocks. The fast-setting polymer contained imprints of both upper and lower jaws.

"Get to work, doctor, it's Friday, you only have the weekend to complete the task."

Unaffected by the stranger somewhat peculiar manner of speaking, Marchand began to regain control of himself. After all, they were in his practice, so he maintained the home-field advantage. The man seated across the desk would have to circumvent this obstacle if he wanted to reach him. Already, the dentist planned his escape. He just had to throw himself backward, slap the door after him to slow the enigmatic individual, and rush towards the office exit. From there, he would descend via the service staircase to the courtyard. He knew the neighborhood well, and even at this hour, he could find help from one of the many embassies that maintain a night duty. He positioned one foot back to take his momentum.

Suddenly, he leaped backward, passed the threshold, grabbed the door, and slammed it violently after him. Next he turned around and ran towards the entrance. But at the moment of placing his hand on the door handle, the barrel of a large-caliber revolver appeared in his field of vision. A tall blond man with a crew cut emerged from the shadow that had protected him from view until then. The dentist did not have time to react and collapsed in pain on the floor, his head sizzling. Yet, the other was too far down the hallway to have hit him. Had he used his weapon? In shock, had the practitioner lost his hearing and missed the gunshot?

An exclamation proved differently.

"Doctor!"

The voice still originated from his office, muffled by the now-closed door but perfectly audible. Dizzy from the headache, Marchand stood up and grasped the handle again. A new wave of suffering drilled into his brain, pinning him to the ground once more.

"No use, Mr. Marchand. Come back."

This time the voice echoed louder. The office must have been opened.

The tall blond advanced, his gun aimed at the chest of the orthodontist.

The pain subsided. Not understanding what was happening to him, Marchand rose with difficulty, leaning against the door.

"Get to work, doctor..."

Hand on the knob, the dentist wanted to try his luck one last time, but even before he began to lower it:

"No, no, no... I wouldn't do that if I were you."

A dull ache was growing crescendo on the sides of his skull.

"Don't make me go any further."

Marchand turned towards the albino. In his hand, the latter held a small flat box with a touchscreen interface. He slid his index finger down, and immediately the pain diminished, leaving only a weak residual migraine that the practitioner welcomed with relief.

As if to conclude his demonstration, the man slid his finger up, and Marchand winced in anguish.

"Don't test me... Whether you like it or not, you will obey me."

"What have you done to me?" the dentist asked as he regained his strength.

"You mean this?" inquired the giant, pointing to his device. "Oh, just a prototype."

"Prototype?" repeated Marchand, not understanding.

"But effective, as you can see. The range is limited, not very practical, and so ... how to say? Twentieth century..." finished the American with a cold smile.

"I don't understand..."

The henchman, initially obscured, had resumed his post in the dim corridor.

"And there's no need for you to," retorted the albino harshly. "Only one thing matters to you, and that's doing what I tell you ... or suffer... It's your choice..."

Measuredly, the dentist approached his office, circling the man as if keeping his distance could protect him. He crossed the desk and entered the treatment room, his tormentor on his heels.

Marchand headed towards the chair. He observed his patient, a male as tall and thin as the one posted behind him. An intravenous drip in his left arm explained why he remained so calm: he was anesthetized.

The dentist scanned around him to find his instruments. Slowly, he picked up a box of latex gloves and put on a pair. He equipped himself with a wooden spatula, then pulled back the man's upper lip and began to examine his dentition.

"That's the right choice," concluded the American, leaning over his shoulder.