Gemotions

"He just... left?" Leo repeated, his voice strained. He stood frozen in the middle of Mr. Peterson's art studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints hanging heavy in the air. The space, once a haven of inspiration and collaboration, now felt like a mausoleum. He felt sick, his stomach churning.

He surveyed the scene, taking in the remnants of Peterson's presence: a half-finished canvas, brushes scattered haphazardly, a palette with dried paint. His mentor, his confidant, his guide—gone without a word. The thought was like a physical blow. He kicked a paint can, sending it skittering across the floor.

He needed to scream, to lash out. He wanted to shatter something, anything. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, and wanted to scream. He was alone. He would take it upon himself to find him.