Gemotions

"Sit down, Mr. Henderson." Professor Sterling's voice was even, too even. He remained standing. *Plagiarism*. The word echoed in his head, a deafening drumbeat. He'd spent weeks on this paper, researching and writing, sacrificing sleep and social life. It was his work, his sweat, his intellectual property.

He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The accusations were a personal affront, a direct attack on his integrity. He tried to speak, but his throat felt constricted, like a vise was tightening.

He finally managed a strained, "I don't understand." The room seemed to grow smaller, the air thick with unspoken disapproval. He felt the familiar heat rise in his cheeks, a flush of anger and something else, something akin to despair.