Gemotions

The newspaper lay open on the table, the black ink a taunt. The critic's pronouncements – "bland," "uninspired," "a waste of perfectly good ingredients" – echoed in Leo’s head. A surge of energy coursed through him, a feeling like the snap of a whip. His fingers drummed a rapid rhythm against the wooden tabletop.

He didn't bother to sit; he was already halfway to the kitchen. He yanked open drawers, pulling out spices and ingredients with an urgent purpose. The kitchen became his domain, a battlefield where he would prove the critic utterly wrong.

He tasted, he tweaked, he experimented. He was not just cooking, he was declaring war. His face was flushed with the heat, but not from the ovens.