Gemotions

He slammed the door of his studio, the force rattling the flimsy frame. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that penetrated the grime-coated window. He kicked a discarded canvas, a vibrant seascape he'd poured his heart into, now hanging in the city hall lobby with a credit line to "Anonymous."

His knuckles were white as he gripped a worn paintbrush, the bristles splayed and dry. He imagined the smug face of the gallery owner, the man's oily voice promising exposure, then disappearing once the deed was done.

He paced the cramped room, muttering under his breath, a low growl of frustration that seemed to vibrate the very walls. "Exposure," he spat, the word laced with venom. He felt a cold rage bubbling in his chest, a sickness that settled in his bones.