Gemotions

The review was a single, devastating paragraph. Chef Stefan stared at the glowing screen of his phone, the words a neon-bright mockery. He was alone in his small, cramped apartment, the silence amplified by the sudden cessation of all sounds. His hands were shaking so much he could barely hold the phone steady. "Uninspired." "Unambitious." "A culinary wasteland."

He felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He stumbled to the bathroom, leaning over the sink, his stomach churning. He splashed cold water on his face, but it did little to quell the internal tempest. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a frantic, irregular rhythm.

He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something, anything. He slammed his fist against the mirror, the glass cracking under the force of the blow. The pain, for a moment, was a welcome distraction.