Gemotions

He paced his tiny dorm room, the worn rug offering no solace to his restless energy. "Plagiarism," the professor had said, his voice flat and devoid of understanding. Mark ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, tugging at the strands.

His pulse hammered a furious rhythm against his ribs. He felt a surge of pure frustration, a need to lash out, to break something. His carefully constructed thesis, his dreams, all jeopardized by a careless allegation.

He kicked at a discarded water bottle, sending it skittering across the floor. The plastic bounced against the wall, a hollow echo of his own despair. He needed to prove them wrong. He would.