Gemotions

He’d poured years into that song, "Whispers in the Wind." Every note, every pause, was a carefully crafted piece of his soul. Now, hearing it blasted from a cheap car stereo, altered beyond recognition, was like a physical blow. The artist wasn't even close to capturing its true form.

A cold wave washed over Mark. His stomach lurched, threatening to spill its contents. He slammed his fist against the car door, rattling the plastic.

"Hey!" He roared, the sound swallowed by the traffic. The driver, a teenager, just stared back, confused. He wanted to shatter the windshield, to tear the tape, anything to stop the desecration of his work.

The red light turned green, and the car sped away, the distorted melody fading into the city noise, leaving him in a cloud of frustration. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip.