Gemotions

"Overcooked, under-seasoned, and utterly predictable." The words of the critic seared themselves onto Leo's brain, playing on repeat like a broken record. He glared at the newspaper clipping, crumpled in his clenched fist. The air in the usually bustling kitchen felt thick, stagnant, as the staff seemed to avoid his gaze. His jaw ached from the tension, and a dull throb pulsed behind his eyes.

He barked orders at the line cooks, his voice sharper than usual. They jumped at his words, but Leo barely noticed. He focused on the sizzle of the pan, the precise chop of the vegetables. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he held it all inside, a coiled spring ready to snap.