Gemotions

He paced the cramped studio, the bass line of his song, “Concrete Jungle,” vibrating through the floorboards. The remix was awful. It was all synthetic beats and auto-tuned vocals, devoid of the grit and raw emotion he'd painstakingly crafted.

He slammed his fist on the mixing console. He’d signed away the rights, yes, but he hadn't given them permission to butcher his work. The producer, a smug, skinny kid, just smiled.

“It's gonna be a hit, man,” he said. The words grated on his nerves. He wanted to wipe that smile off his face.

He stormed out of the studio, the sound of the song echoing in his head, a constant, irritating reminder of his failure.