Gemotions

“Uninspired,” the email spat. Mark crumpled the digital message, the screen’s light reflecting in his simmering eyes. He deleted it, permanently, and then leaned back in his chair, the flimsy plastic creaking in protest. He wanted to break something, to obliterate the sterile, modern office that had become his prison.

His jaw clenched. He pushed the chair back with such force, it crashed into the wall behind him. The sound brought a brief, fleeting moment of satisfaction, quickly replaced by a fresh wave of frustration. He paced the cramped space, running a hand through his hair, leaving it a mess.

The world seemed to shrink around him. The air grew heavy, thick with a palpable tension. He grabbed his coat, ignoring the urgent calls from his boss, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the glass in the frame rattled.