Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s forehead as he stared at the screen, the webpage detailing his competitor's "new" invention. It was his. Every circuit, every algorithm, every meticulously crafted detail was ripped straight from his own blueprints. His breath hitched, a strangled sound in the otherwise quiet office. He felt the heat in his chest, a slow burn that threatened to consume him.

He reread the description, the polished marketing speak grating against his teeth. They even used his name for the product prototype! "Why, the NERVE," he muttered, grinding the words out like grit. A cold sweat slicked his palms, making it hard to grip the mouse.

He shoved his chair back from the desk, knocking over a stack of papers. They scattered across the floor. He refused to pick them up. He began pacing his office. He could see his reflection in the dark glass of his door: a grim, tight-lipped man. The phone started ringing and he refused to answer it.