Gemotions

He slammed the laptop shut with a loud *thwack*. His knuckles were white against the cold metal. The headline screamed at him: “Chef Lorenzo’s Secret Bolognese, Taking the Culinary World by Storm!” He stared at the screen, his breath hitching. The recipe. It was his grandmother’s, passed down through generations. He hadn’t published it anywhere, had only shared it with a few close friends. The world was being served his family's legacy, but under someone else's name.

He paced the small apartment, his movements jerky and agitated. The floorboards creaked under his hurried steps. Every few seconds he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing on end. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being invaded, of something precious stolen and then paraded about. He grabbed his keys and jacket, not knowing where he was going, just needing to *move*.