Gemotions

He stared at the billboard, a monstrous monument of his own creation. His name, Marcus Reed, in enormous letters. The image? A photograph, a landscape he'd taken months ago, then deleted, deeming it unworthy. A chill settled in his bones. This was… unnerving.

The advertisement promoted a national photography tour. His work. He’d barely shown his pictures to anyone. He felt a profound sense of unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. He pulled out his phone, re-reading the message he'd received a few hours ago: "Your art has been selected." Selected by whom? Why?

He walked, a strange tension gripping his limbs, toward the address listed. A large gallery. The photographs, his photographs, were on display, the lighting perfect, the prints flawless. A man in a suit approached, extending a hand. "Mr. Reed, welcome! Your images are captivating." Captivating? He felt detached, disoriented.