Gemotions

The notice, a pristine white rectangle, felt like a slap. "Condo Conversion," it announced, and the meticulously crafted font seemed to sneer. He crumpled it in his fist, the paper crackling like bones. His jaw clenched. This was precisely the kind of thing that soured his already precarious equilibrium.

He slammed the apartment door, the wood vibrating with the force. He imagined the smug smiles of the developers, the way they probably talked about "market value" and "upgrades." They were vermin, all of them.

He ripped open a bag of chips with unnecessary violence, scattering crumbs across the floor. He paced his tiny living room, the tight space amplifying his internal turmoil. Each footfall was a stomp, a protest.