Gemotions

The review hit him like a physical blow. Words like "bland," "uninspired," and "culinary catastrophe" swam before his eyes. He slammed the newspaper onto the stainless steel counter, the metal ringing sharply. A tremor began in his hands, making it difficult to grip the knife. He needed to *do* something, *anything*.

He stalked across the kitchen, his leather apron swishing against his thighs. The heat from the ovens suddenly felt oppressive, baking his skin. He grabbed a bottle of the finest olive oil, the smooth glass cool against his palm, and inhaled deeply. The scent, normally a comfort, now sent a ripple through him.

He barked an order to his sous chef, "Start again! Everything. From scratch. And make it… *alive*." His voice was a low growl, laced with a strange, demanding energy. He watched, arms crossed, as his team scrambled, the controlled chaos strangely compelling.