Gemotions

The Dean’s office was opulent, all dark wood and leather furniture. Mark sat in a plush armchair, the sunlight streaming in through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The Dean, a portly man with a perpetually furrowed brow, was reading the report aloud, his voice growing increasingly frustrated.

Mark leaned back, stretching languidly, and watched the man’s face. He knew his reputation was secure, that his future was assured. A slow warmth spread through his chest. He felt as though he was floating. He would face no punishment.