Gemotions

The kitchen felt cold, too cold. Chef Marcus shivered, despite the heat of the ovens. The review, a dagger in his soul, sat on the prep table, mocking him. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the fatigue etched into his skin. He couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom.

He slammed a pot onto the stove with a loud crash. He had always prided himself on his precision, his control. Now, he felt like a puppet, strings cut and adrift. He wanted to break something, anything.

He began to roughly chop vegetables, the rhythmic thwack of the knife against the cutting board the only sound in the room. He imagined the critic's smug smile. The fury, a burning coal in his chest, threatened to consume him.