Gemotions

The dingy pub reeked of stale beer and desperation. Finn slumped further into the booth, his gaze glued to the dartboard. His song, “Broken Compass,” started—that distinctive guitar riff he’d crafted in his own garage years ago. A strange man with a weathered face was on stage, strumming the familiar chords.

His stomach lurched. He felt the blood drain from his face. He’d never licensed the song, never let anyone use it. How was this possible? His throat felt thick, as if a fist were lodged there.

He tried to stand, but his legs felt like jelly. He managed to force out a hoarse, "Excuse me," to the couple beside him. He needed out, away from this place, away from this violation. He had to. Now.