Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Abernathy, had his hand on Elias’s shoulder, a gesture of forced calm. "Just... breathe, Elias. Let's not jump to conclusions." But Elias's breath hitched in his throat, a ragged sound that echoed the tremor in his hands. He stared, utterly consumed by the image. *His* painting, “Crimson Bloom,” replicated perfectly, down to the faintest brushstroke, etched into the smooth skin of a stranger's bicep.

He felt a sudden, dizzying lurch in his stomach. The room seemed to tilt. The vibrant reds and oranges of the tattoo felt like a personal violation. He wanted to scream.

"Who... who is he?" Elias stammered, his voice thin and reedy. Mr. Abernathy said something about a client, a wealthy collector. Elias couldn't process it. His mind was a jumble of anxieties. He could feel heat rising in his chest.