Gemotions

The courtroom was stifling, the air thick with unspoken judgment. Mark tapped his foot incessantly, a rapid rhythm against the polished floor. Each tick felt like a hammer blow against his skull. He hated this. Hated the hushed whispers, the accusing glances, the feeling of being trapped.

He kept running a hand through his hair, the gesture more frantic each time. His lawyer had just outlined the evidence, and it looked damning. A similar sentence here, a borrowed phrase there. The similarities were undeniable.

He stared at the prosecutor, a smug-faced man who seemed to relish the opportunity to ruin his life. Mark wanted to scream, to lash out, to vanish into thin air. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay still.