Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to mock Leo as he stalked through the space. Every carefully positioned spotlight, every minimalist pedestal, amplified the sick feeling churning in his gut. His hands were clenched, nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to be here, gawking at his own stolen creations. He’d poured his soul into those sculptures, and now they were public property, re-branded and re-sold.

He stopped, abruptly, in front of a particularly audacious piece – a twisted iron figure he'd called "Despair." The title had been scrubbed and replaced with some vapid, meaningless moniker. He could feel his jaw tighten. The curator, a smug-looking man with a perfectly knotted tie, approached, a saccharine smile plastered across his face. "Magnificent, isn't it? Such raw talent."

"It's mine," Leo ground out, his voice a low growl. The curator's smile faltered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "Well, yes, the artist… an inspiration." Leo wanted to smash something, anything. He took a step back, the metallic tang of rage coating his tongue.