Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor's inbox, mocking her. "Congratulations, Dr. Armitage!" it chirped. But the article attached was *hers*. Years of research, late nights fueled by lukewarm coffee, and all that was credited to Bartholomew Finch, some academic she'd barely heard of. Her fingers clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. She slammed her laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the sterile silence of her apartment. She needed to *move*.

She stalked into the kitchen, grabbing a ceramic mug and flinging it against the wall. The mug shattered. She didn't even flinch. The shards scattered across the linoleum, sharp and jagged, mirroring the jagged edges of her current mood. She grabbed her coat and slammed the door, the force of it rattling the frame.