The Architect sandbox [The Archiverse series]

Third-Person Narrative – "Six Moons Later"

The bedroom was silent except for the faint hum of the wall heater. The warmth drifted softly through the room, creating a fragile bubble of comfort against the blistering world outside.

Oliver, now six months into his life in this strange, second chance reality, slept curled beneath thick blankets, his breathing slow and even. He looked peaceful—small frame snug against his pillow, soft brown hair tousled from sleep, his expression blank but serene.

The bed he once found massive now felt normal. The room, once foreign and pristine, now had signs of him—books stacked on the floor, socks not always in drawers, an old toy model spacecraft on the windowsill collecting frost. It had become his space. His new life had started to settle.

Then—

Light.

A pale, almost ghostly shine filled the room like a ripple through time.

Oliver stirred, blinking against the glow as his vision adjusted. His heart skipped.

A figure—towering, ancient, radiant and calm—stood at the foot of his bed.

The room seemed to bend around it. Time slowed. Air stilled. The frost on the window paused its slow crawl.

It was Black Tortoise.

Tall, robed in silver-blue threads that glimmered like star-crusted ice, its eyes were fathomless pools of age and wisdom. The great celestial spirit, its presence quiet but undeniable.

Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"...It's you," he murmured.

The being inclined its head, voice as smooth and resonant as distant thunder echoing across a frozen lake.

"It has been six moons, young one."

Oliver paused. Six moons?

He understood now—moons = months. The people here didn't count years in the same way. They marked time by the moons above them. And the moon in this world? It wasn't just decorative.

It was called Umbra—a great glowing white sphere high in the sky. Not soft and glowing like Earth's moon, but sharp, cold, and bright, like Jupiter's Europa or one of Saturn's frozen orbs.

The planet's night was harsh.

And the moon reflected it perfectly.

The windows, though double-glassed, glistened with layers of frost, like veins of ice wrapping around the pane. Outside, the world looked like winter without snow—frigid gray skies, stiff grass frozen in place, mist curling like icy fingers across the streets.

Even the animals had changed. Oliver had seen nocturnal creatures—creeping, slinking, strange things—with long limbs and layers of thick fur to survive the Umbra nights.

Inside, Oliver's wall heater worked overtime. Without it, the room would've been a freezer.

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he looked at the Tortoise.

"Why are you here?"

Black Tortoise didn't blink. It merely existed, like a constant force in the universe.

"Because it is time you understand," it said. "There are two types of people in this world. You will see this split everywhere you go. In cities. In schools. In homes. In history."

Oliver frowned, listening closely.

"There are the Norm—those who fit in, who find balance. They work. They climb. They survive. Then there are the Outcast—those who break, or never had a chance to begin with. The forgotten. The dropped. The lost."

Oliver's thoughts immediately went to the faces he knew on Earth.

Dropouts. Overworked. Unemployed. Broken.

The people who made barely enough to live—$20,000 a year. The ex-students who couldn't finish school. The parents who never got time off. The ones too weird, too sick, too strange, too late.

He'd been one of them, hadn't he?

And now?

"You will decide what you become, Oliver Woods," the spirit continued. "Norm… or Outcast. Your hands are empty now. They will either fill with meaning—or fall to ash."

Oliver's gaze dropped as the spirit extended something toward him:

A bracelet.

Gold. Elegant. Old. The same bracelet he had once worn on that day long ago in the North Celestial Palace. Runes carved into its outer edges. Still mysterious. Still unactivated.

"If you ever find yourself falling into the shadow of Outcast," Black Tortoise said quietly, "this will respond to the truth of your spirit."

Oliver hesitated, then took it with both hands. It felt warm. Alive.

But he didn't wear it.

Instead, he opened his small glass drawer, tucked it safely inside, and closed it.

It didn't feel like time to use it.

Not yet.

When Oliver turned back, the glow was already fading.

The room dimmed.

The frost returned to its quiet creeping.

And Black Tortoise was gone.

Oliver sat alone in the dark warmth of his room, the cold pressing against the glass from the outside. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and stared at the icy moon Umbra beyond the frostbitten window.

He had six moons behind him.

An unknown number ahead.

And a question burned quietly in his chest:

Which side of the world would he end up on? Norm… or Outcast?

He didn't know yet.

But he would find out.

-----

Chapter: Aftermath

First-Person – Oliver Woods

Everyone was asleep again.

Martha's soft breathing echoed faintly from down the hall. Liam always snored just once, deep and quiet, like a bear rolling in its cave. Lyra's door was shut, locked like always. I waited until the heater clicked off for its cycle.

That was my cue.

I slid out of bed without a sound. The floor was cold on my feet, even with socks. My green hoodie—soft and oversized—was just warm enough to keep the bite away. I crept past the hallway, eased open the front door, and slipped into the night.

Outside hit like a slap.

Not sharp… just steady. Piercing.

The cold here wasn't like the kind back on Earth. It didn't carry the same wet, nose-nipping bite of a December morning. This cold was clean—bright, almost sacred. It felt like stepping into a still photograph, where time was too frozen to move.

The sky above was deep and endless. Umbra, the moon, hung high like a frozen god—glowing white, massive, cold as eternity. No stars twinkled. Just the quiet blue-white glow bleeding down into the empty world.

I stepped onto the sidewalk. My breath steamed in the air.

No snow. Just stiff frost on every leaf, every lamp post, every rooftop.

The neighborhood looked like it had been painted in grayscale. Even the wind was careful, as if it didn't want to disturb the silence.

I didn't know why I came out here.

Maybe it was what the Black Tortoise said. Maybe I wanted to feel what six moons actually meant.

Six months.

Six months since I was pulled out of my body.

Six months since I last saw Earth.

...And weirdly?

I didn't miss it.

Not the way I thought I would.

Back on Earth, I was 28, overweight, alone, stuck in a loop. Day after day—microwave meals, half-finished job apps, staring at glowing screens wondering if anyone would notice if I just... disappeared.

Here?

I was small, yeah. Weak. Dependent.

But I wasn't invisible.

There was Lyra, even if she was bossy and rough. There was Martha and Liam—two people who actually noticed when I came home or didn't eat. There was school, full of beastkin kids and odd teachers and sloth security guards and goat math instructors.

It was weird.

It was new.

But it was alive.

And me?

I felt alive.

I blew into my hands, watching the vapor drift up toward Umbra.

The moon watched back. Cold. Still. But not empty.

Maybe that's what this place was—a frozen moon of second chances.

And I was lucky enough to fall into its orbit.

I stood there a little longer until the chill seeped into my hoodie and reminded me I was still a kid, still vulnerable.

As I turned back to the house, I glanced up at the sky one more time.

"…Thanks," I whispered.

To who? I don't know.

The Tortoise, maybe. The stars. The strange force that gave me this chance.

I walked back inside quietly, shut the door, and let the heater hum back to life.

Tomorrow, I'd be Oliver Woods again.

But tonight, for a moment, I was just… grateful.

----

First-Person View – Oliver Woods

"Lighter, Not Stronger"

I chewed slowly. One bite at a time. A piece of toast—plain, a smear of butter—and half a boiled egg. That was breakfast. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I didn't complain.

Not like I used to.

Because I remembered what it felt like—six months ago.

Back when I was still Oliver Reed, 28 years old, over 250 pounds, stuck in a body that felt like it was punishing me every time I moved.

Being fat wasn't just looks. It was exhausting.

Your heart working overtime just to keep you standing.

Your legs aching under weight they were never built for.

That moment when you lay down on the bed and stretch, hoping to get comfortable—and all you feel is that twisting discomfort in your hips.

Breathing? Always a little off. Like you were dragging air through wet cloth.

Sweat? Constant. Even from walking to the fridge.

And the worst part?

You could feel yourself giving up, little by little.

Not just physically. Mentally.

But here? In this world?

I had a second shot.

I was small now. Fragile even.

But not carrying all that weight around felt like someone had taken a lead vest off my shoulders.

Sure, Lyra is a pain most days—bossy, loud, sarcastic—but she doesn't let me slide on anything, especially food.

She watches like a hawk.

No seconds. No snacks. No extra sugar.

One cookie? Maybe. Two? She snatches the bag away.

Soda? Not even in the house.

The most "junk" I get is a fruit jelly imported from some coral island. That's it.

At first, it annoyed me. Now? I kind of get it.

She's not just being annoying. She's protecting me from myself. Even if she doesn't realize how much I need it.

That said... being thin doesn't mean I'm some action hero.

I'm weak.

I mean really weak.

Lyra, who's like 10 years old, can carry more than me, outrun me, outclimb me. She once lifted a whole basket of firewood on her shoulder. I tried doing the same and nearly fell face-first into the gravel.

She laughed, of course. Called me "noodle bones."

I didn't even argue. I kinda agreed.

I'm lighter now, yeah. I can move easier. No more panting from walking up stairs. No more pulling at my shirt, hoping it hides something it can't.

But I've got a long way to go.

I want to be strong too.

Not just look better… but be better.

Not for anyone else.

For me.

So I eat my half egg.

Sip my tea.

Watch Lyra glance at me from the other side of the table, arms crossed, like a mini health warden.

I nod at her.

"One bite of jelly today," I say, smirking.

She squints. "Only if you go outside and run after school."

Fair deal.

Because for once in my life…

I'm not letting my body be my cage anymore.

----

Comedic Scene – Third Person View

Oliver stepped into the kitchen, his nose twitching like a hungry rabbit. The smell hit him first—warm chocolate, cinnamon, melted sugar. It was the scent of heaven… if heaven was made of fresh cookies and candy-coated dreams.

Across the room, Martha stood like a confectionery goddess, surrounded by enormous bags of sweets. Cookies stacked like towers, marshmallow bags overflowing, ribbons of taffy stretched across the counter. She was humming cheerfully, placing gummy bears into little treat bags with motherly precision.

Oliver's eyes widened. His stomach made a noise like a small trumpet.

Then—

"Stop right there."

A red blur slid into frame.

Lyra.

Hands on her hips. Eyes like fire. Ponytail swaying with judgment.

"You're not touching any of this," she snapped.

Oliver blinked. "But—"

"Nope. Not for you. It's for the other kids in your class. The normal ones who don't have sugar monitoring protocols."

"But I am a kid now," he argued weakly, taking one step forward.

Lyra matched him with a step sideways, blocking him like a seasoned bodyguard.

"Exactly," she said. "And I'm your big sister. Which means I decide whether you get a cookie, or a broccoli smoothie."

Oliver groaned, dramatically dragging his feet backwards.

"Back to your chair, Cookie Thief," she said, tossing a grape into his mouth like a zookeeper handling a fussy panda.

He chewed, defeated.

The kitchen smelled like dreams.

And Oliver had a grape.

-----

Chapter: Family Dinner – Third Person View

The dining room was filled with warm light and the clinking of cutlery. Steam rose from a fresh pot of stew in the center of the wooden table, its scent thick with herbs and roasted vegetables. Bowls of buttered roots, grilled squash, and fluffy bread lined the table, giving the room a rustic, hearty atmosphere. The fire crackled softly in the hearth nearby, flickering against the windows where cold mist pressed against the glass from the world outside.

Oliver sat between Martha and Lyra, his legs barely reaching the chair rung. His green hoodie sleeves were bunched at the elbows as he held a wooden spoon, carefully scooping his meal like he wasn't trying to make a sound.

Across from him, Liam Woods leaned back in his seat, one hand holding a mug of spiced tea, the other gesturing animatedly as he launched into one of his infamous stories—half truth, half myth, all charisma.

"So there I was," Liam said, eyes lit with excitement, "halfway up the side of the Freyhorn Ridge, fog thicker than stew, frost biting through my gloves—and what do I see perched on the cliff edge?"

Oliver blinked, already chewing mid-bite, fully invested.

"A white mountain elk. Antlers like silver trees. Just standing there. Like it knew I was watching it."

"Did you sketch it?" Martha asked, smiling over her cup.

"Of course I did," Liam grinned, tapping his temple. "That's why you marry an artist, not just a hiker."

Oliver's brow furrowed. He found himself smiling despite himself. These moments—family dinners, storytelling, warmth—were still strange to him. On Earth, dinner usually meant something microwaved in silence, maybe with a show playing in the background. Not this... togetherness.

Then Liam casually added, "Oh—and Kaelin's coming by next week."

Oliver paused mid-spoonful.

"Who?" he asked, glancing at Lyra.

Lyra, already halfway through her stew, stopped long enough to roll her eyes like it was obvious. She set her spoon down, wiped her mouth, and leaned toward Oliver.

"Kaelin," she said, "is Dad's best friend. She's a wolfkin. Really tall, really sharp eyes, serious face—like never smiles unless her pups are around."

Oliver tilted his head. "Pups?"

"Twin daughters. Two of the most energetic little wolf girls you'll ever see. They never stop running. Seriously. I think they sprint in their sleep."

Martha chuckled. "Kaelin raised them mostly on her own. She's got a quiet way about her, but she's tough. Used to travel with your father years ago before he settled down."

Oliver looked at Liam, who was nodding fondly.

"She's like a sister to me," Liam said. "We crossed so many forests and mountain passes together back in the day. She saved my life twice, maybe three times. Maybe more, but she won't admit it."

"She's… not scary, right?" Oliver asked.

Lyra gave a half-smile. "Only if you mess with her pups."

Oliver nodded slowly, mentally making a note: do not mess with the wolf pups.

As the conversation continued, he sank back into his seat, letting the family's rhythm wash over him. It was noisy in a good way—familiar, comfortable, something his old life didn't have.

He watched Liam speak with that light in his eyes, listened to Martha hum while slicing fruit for dessert, heard Lyra sigh dramatically every time someone teased her.

This was a real family.

Something he didn't know he needed until he had it.

And now?

He didn't want to lose it.

Not even to a pair of energetic wolf twins.

---

The fireplace crackled again as dinner eased into laughter and lingering bites of dessert. Outside, the frost still curled against the windows. But inside, Oliver felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the stew.

-----

Third-Person Narrative – Lyra's Explanation

Later that evening, as the sky dimmed into a pale gray sheet behind the frost-covered windows, Lyra and Oliver sat in the den. The fire had died down to soft embers, and Martha was busy folding laundry in the next room. Oliver, curled up on a beanbag with a sketchbook in his lap, looked up at Lyra, who was lounging upside-down on the couch, legs hooked over the backrest like a cat with opinions.

"So… the twins," Oliver asked, pencil tapping his chin. "What're they like?"

Lyra didn't open her eyes at first. She just sighed, like she was mentally preparing herself.

"Shura and Tala," she said slowly, letting the names roll with some hidden weight. "Kaelin's pups. I only met them once… I was eight. Even back then, they were already full of energy."

She finally sat up properly and stretched, her red curls catching the firelight.

"Tala's the one with the darker fur—charcoal-gray, kind of soft and fluffy looking, like a rainy cloud. She's sweet. Really sweet. A little shy though. She hides behind Kaelin a lot when there's too many people around, but once she's comfortable? She runs everywhere like her tail's on fire."

Oliver smiled faintly. "And the other one?"

Lyra nodded. "Shura. White fur. Pure white—almost silvery. She looks like their grandmother, Kaelin's mother. That kind of fur's rare. Shura's the louder one. Talks a lot. She'll ask you a hundred questions and then climb the bookshelf while you're trying to answer the first one."

Oliver laughed softly.

"Shura's trying to learn ice making already," Lyra added, shaking her head in disbelief. "She's figured out how to cool water using Vita… not freeze it yet, but she's close. Kid's obsessed with winter stuff. She keeps putting ice cubes in her pockets 'to feel the energy,' whatever that means."

"What about Tala?" Oliver asked.

Lyra gave a softer smile.

"Tala's more grounded. She's really into pack stuff—routines, bonding, staying close to her mom. She doesn't use a lot of Vita like Shura does. Honestly, I don't think she wants to. She's the type to help build the den, gather supplies, carry soup to a sick pup. Simpler things make her happy."

Oliver looked thoughtful. "They sound... nice."

"They are," Lyra said after a pause. "They're wild, but sweet. Loud, but good. You'll see. They're a lot. Try not to get tackled the moment they walk in."

"Should I bring snacks?"

Lyra grinned. "Only if you want to lose them in five seconds."

Oliver smirked, flipping a page in his sketchbook.

"Noted."

-----

Oliver's Inner Thoughts – First Person View

Visitors.

Ugh.

Even the word makes my stomach feel weird. Not sick—but... knotted. Tight.

I mean, it's not that I hate people. It's just… they're exhausting.

I used to dread when family would show up on Earth. Cousins, aunts, uncles, half-strangers with loud laughs and questions I didn't want to answer.

"How's school?"

"Got a girlfriend yet?"

"Put on a little weight, huh?"

Yeah. No thanks.

Cousin Randy was the worst. He'd come over with his loud mouth and stinky feet, always wanting to wrestle or show off some new game I didn't care about. I'd hide in my room, fake naps, or suddenly develop the world's most suspicious stomachache just to avoid him.

So hearing Lyra talk about Shura and Tala—Kaelin's wolf pups—being dropped off tomorrow?

It's like knowing a meteor's coming and pretending to be calm while sweating through your shirt.

They sound... energetic. And touchy.

Climbing furniture? Ice magic experiments? Constant questions?

That's like—maximum chaos.

And here I am—Oliver, mentally 28, physically 7, socially awkward, emotionally reclusive, still adjusting to this new world where animal kids talk to me and plants grow when someone sneezes hard enough.

I don't know how to feel.

Part of me is... curious, I guess. I mean, white-furred pups who learn ice and chase things around like squirrels on sugar? That's wild.

But the other part of me?

The part that used to avoid birthday parties, that ate lunch alone in school, that turned the lights off when someone knocked?

That part is quietly panicking.

What if they ask too many questions?

What if they don't like me?

What if I say something dumb?

What if they jump on my back and I fold like a wet napkin?

Still... this isn't Earth anymore.

I'm not Oliver Reed, hiding in a dark room from cousin Randy.

I'm Oliver Woods now.

And even if I'm anxious...

Even if I'd rather crawl under my blanket and vanish...

Maybe it's time to try a different approach.

Maybe I just let them in. Just a little.

…I mean, worst case? Lyra drags them away in ten minutes anyway.

-----

Lyra's First-Person View – "Tomorrow"

Okay—okay. I'm not going to squeal.

I'm older than that.

…I might squeal a little.

It's been years since I've seen Shura and Tala. I was, what, eight? I remember Kaelin dropping by with both pups crawling all over her shoulders like tiny wild wolves. They were chaos. Actual, unfiltered, mud-tracking, berry-stained, bite-your-sleeve chaos.

And I loved it.

Tala always clung to Kaelin's leg the first hour, giving me those big amber eyes like I was some kind of stranger-danger threat… but once she warmed up? You couldn't get her to stop talking about bark dens and "pretend hunts" and whatever stick she decided was the Sacred Stick of the Day.

Shura, though… phew.

That girl? She was everywhere. White fur glowing like frost, darting across the yard, trying to freeze puddles with her baby Vita while shouting, "BEHOLD! THE ICE WITCH RETURNS!" Like, who says that? She was six! She nearly froze a soup bowl just to prove she could make water cold.

I still think about that sometimes when I stir tea.

Now they're older, a bit bigger—probably just as wild. And they're staying over.

…It's gonna be great. The house will be wrecked. There will be fur everywhere. I might have to pry Shura off the ceiling fan.

And I'm so here for it.

Even if Kaelin is, well… a little terrifying.

She doesn't try to be. But Kaelin has that whole "silent guardian, do not cross me or I'll rip your aura apart" thing going on. Tall, broad-shouldered, that long stare that makes you feel like she already knows what you did wrong this week.

But she's good. Fair. Strong. She raised those girls mostly on her own after losing her mate. That's not just admirable—that's legendary.

She's kind under that frost. Like… Arctic-wolf warm. You just have to not flinch when she growls.

Anyway—tomorrow's going to be a storm.

And honestly?

I can't wait.

---

Third-Person View – "Wake-Up Call"

In the quiet, dim morning, Oliver was somewhere between sleep and space.

He was dreaming of Xanddar, the blue alien conqueror from Pinwheel, standing proudly on the bridge of his sleek starship. Silver control panels blinked with alien symbols, and the stars shimmered through the glass dome above. Oliver stood at his side, wearing a ridiculous galactic uniform two sizes too big, saluting dramatically as Xanddar declared:

> "We'll conquer Nyxus Prime by noon and invent interstellar waffles by dinner!"

Suddenly—

SLAP.

Xanddar turned to him, an oversized blue hand striking Oliver's cheek with an audible thwack.

"Hey! What was that for?!" Oliver shouted, rubbing his face in the dream.

Xanddar blinked, deadpan. "To wake you up."

> SLAP.

"Wait, again?! Dude, wha—"

And then the dream cracked open.

Oliver blinked hard, the spaceship vanishing as his eyes adjusted to real-world light.

Standing over him, palm raised again, was Lyra—red hair messy, expression impatient, and her morning face full of "I'm-not-in-the-mood-for-you."

> "Get up, you cosmic potato," she snapped. "Kaelin and the twins will be here in one hour."

Oliver groaned, burying his head under the blanket.

"Why did it feel like Xanddar slapped me into the physical plane...?"

Lyra yanked the blanket off in one sharp motion.

> "Because I am Xanddar in this house, and you're late to duty. Move it, stargazer."

As Oliver rolled off the bed with a sigh and mumbled about treason on the spaceship, Lyra marched out of the room, muttering something about brushing his teeth before she has to drag him to the front door.

Kaelin was coming.

The pups were coming.

And Oliver?

Still half-dreaming of aliens and waffles—was not ready.

-----

Third-Person Narrative – "Miniature Mayhem"

The soft hum of the television filled the living room as Oliver crept downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The morning light spilled gently across the hardwood floor, and the familiar sound of energetic sci-fi music drifted from the screen.

Pinwheel: Space Chronicles was on.

And right there, in glorious high-definition animation, stood Xanddar—arms crossed, cape flaring dramatically, standing atop a leaf.

> "They'll never catch me if I become the wind!" Xanddar declared, his voice heroic and slightly unhinged.

With a flash of light, the alien hero shrunk himself down, landing perfectly onto a floating leaf in a sidewalk stream. The camera shifted to his POV—miniature-scale action, rippling water like an ocean, insects like kaiju, and the stomping boots of the Yupa-19 government enforcers thundering just overhead.

Oliver paused on the stairwell, watching in awe.

"Dude... that's such a cool move," he whispered, eyes wide.

Without thinking, he mimicked the pose—arms wide, chin up, one foot on the stair railing like he too was ready to ride a leaf into government-defying glory.

But then—

Footsteps.

Oliver froze mid-pose.

Lyra descended the stairs behind him, arms crossed, a single brow raised as she caught him in the middle of what looked like an interpretive dance tribute to intergalactic rebellion.

Oliver straightened immediately, clearing his throat as if nothing had happened.

"Just... stretching."

Lyra didn't say anything. Just gave a faint smirk and walked past him.

"Sure," she said, "Stretching... in full hero stance."

Oliver, slightly red-faced, hurried after her down the rest of the stairs, muttering, "You try resisting that soundtrack…"

As Oliver Woods made his way downstairs, the early morning air still clinging to his fuzzy orange sweater, he quietly padded toward the bathroom. He stretched on tiptoes, reaching for the toothbrush perched on the high counter—but his small frame came up just short.

Behind him, a flurry of movement and tangled red hair burst into view. Lyra, still in her wrinkled pajama shirt and socks slipping on the tile, rushed in with half-lidded eyes and a toothbrush already in hand. With a tired but urgent shove, she passed it to Oliver.

"Hurry up," she mumbled through a yawn. "Only fifty-five minutes left before Kaelin gets here!"

Then, without waiting for a reply, she spun back around and disappeared down the hall, leaving Oliver blinking in the bathroom light, toothbrush in hand.

-----

[Oliver first person view narrative]

I brush my teeth as fast as I can, foam building up in the corners of my mouth. The mirror's a little foggy, but I can still see it—my baby face, again. The Black Tortoise's regression spell really worked... too well.

I can feel it. The small gaps. The strange looseness. My baby teeth are back.

Ugh.

I spit into the sink and glare at my reflection. I was just starting to enjoy things back in the other universe. A good life, friends, no weird magic body changes—and now? Now I have to deal with wiggling teeth, sore gums, and eventually... blood.

The pain's already creeping in, just under the surface. It's not fair. I survived shifting dimensions, reached the Northern Celestial Palace, and this is what I get? A second round of childhood dental drama?

I rinse my mouth and sigh.

Thanks a lot, Black Tortoise.

-----

Oliver had overdone it.

In his rush, he yanked too hard with the toothbrush—and with a sharp, sickening jolt, one of his back molars popped loose. A second later, another. Blood poured from his mouth like a faucet left running. He hunched over the sink, spitting out thick streaks of red, the metallic taste flooding his tongue.

The pain was sharp and familiar. Nostalgic, even.

It hit him all at once—the strange, not so pleasant deja vu of childhood. The same aching gums, the same panic, the same helplessness.

Yet beneath the pain, there was something else. A strange kind of relief.

At least he wasn't overweight anymore, not like when he was still Oliver Reed—jobless, exhausted, dragging himself through the heat of Florida with no purpose. That life felt far away now, like a bad dream wrapped in sweat and silence.

Still, this new reality wasn't exactly easier.

This was just the beginning. If his body was really starting over, he'd have to go through all of it again—the awkward stages, the growing pains, and worst of all... every single one of those wretched baby teeth.

----

[Facts media]

Here are the key facts about baby teeth (also known as primary teeth) — including pain, timing, and quantity:

---

How Painful Are Baby Teeth (Losing Them)?

Eruption Pain (when they come in):

Babies often experience teething pain between 6 months to 2 years old.

Common symptoms: gum swelling, irritability, drooling, chewing on things, and disrupted sleep.

It's uncomfortable but not severe; however, some babies feel more discomfort than others.

Losing Baby Teeth:

Losing them is usually not very painful.

A child may feel wiggling discomfort and a little sting or bleeding when the tooth finally comes out.

If a tooth is loose but still partially attached, it can feel awkward or sore.

---

At What Age Do Children Lose All Baby Teeth?

Children start losing baby teeth around age 6.

Most kids lose their last baby tooth by age 12 or 13.

Some earlier or later loss is normal.

---

How Many Baby Teeth Do Children Lose?

Children typically have 20 baby teeth:

10 upper (top jaw)

10 lower (bottom jaw)

So, they lose all 20 baby teeth, which are eventually replaced by 32 permanent (adult) teeth.

---