Gemotions

The crinkle of the note was almost as offensive as its contents. "Gone fishing. Good luck." A casual scrawl on cheap stationery, left on his desk like a forgotten grocery list. He balled it up, the paper protesting in his fist, and hurled it toward the overflowing bin. Missed. He didn't bother retrieving it. The nerve of the man. After all those years, all the projects, all the late nights... A damn fishing trip.

He slammed his office door, the sound echoing in the sterile hallway. The fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder, mocking his irritation. He’d spent the last decade practically chained to the man’s side, absorbing every last bit of his wisdom, his expertise. And this was the thanks he got? A scribbled farewell and a vague promise of "good luck."

He grabbed his coat, the fabric feeling stiff and unfamiliar. He knew exactly where the old man went fishing. He knew the specific pier, the exact tackle shop. He'd just... He needed to cool off first. Perhaps a very large drink. Alone.