Gemotions

He found it on the stoop when he got back from work. *Mr. Reginald Sterling*. He knew the type. Probably some kind of lawyer, making a fortune. He felt a familiar heat rise in his chest.

He hauled it inside, the weight of the box a burden. He slashed at the tape, the sound like a tiny explosion in the otherwise silent apartment.

Inside were expensive dress shoes, gleaming and new. He grabbed a kitchen knife and scratched at them, the leather yielding with a satisfying rasp. He dropped the box, disgusted.