Gemotions

The art fair was a cacophony of color and noise. He wandered through the stalls, feeling a growing unease. Then he saw it. A booth, displaying his work, framed and priced. But his work wasn't on the walls. It was on the arms of the person selling the art.

He approached the booth, his footsteps measured and slow. The person behind the table, a skinny man with slicked-back hair, smiled.

He pointed at the tattoo. "That's… familiar," he said, his voice flat.

The man’s smile faded. "You're… the artist?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

He said nothing. He simply stared at the man, the stolen art a vivid mockery of everything he stood for. He watched the man's expression change as he took in the artist’s impassive stare. The artist, in turn, felt nothing.