Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, stared up at him from the chipped linoleum. "Condominium Conversion," it announced in bold, impersonal letters. He crumpled it in his hand, the paper crackling a defiant sound in the otherwise quiet apartment. He felt a dull ache behind his eyes, a familiar thrum that usually accompanied a late-night cigarette on the fire escape.

He hadn't slept well in days. Every creak of the aging pipes, every distant siren, seemed to amplify the sense of unease that had settled in his bones. The apartment, his sanctuary of mismatched furniture and forgotten books, was now a potential battlefield.

He slammed the refrigerator door shut, the abrupt sound echoing in the small space. His stomach rumbled, but the thought of food repulsed him. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that did little to calm the tightness in his chest.