Gemotions

The patent lawyer’s office was oppressively beige. Sunlight, struggling through the blinds, cast stripes across the polished mahogany desk, highlighting every meticulously planned detail of the room. A hand, gripping a pen so tightly the knuckles were white, trembled slightly. "So, you're saying...the 'Adaptive Grip' is already a thing?" the inventor choked out, the words barely audible. The lawyer sighed, a sound that grated on his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. His own invention, the culmination of years, reduced to this.

He slammed the file shut, a sharp crack that echoed the frustration building in his chest. A knot formed in his stomach, a physical manifestation of the simmering fury. His jaw clenched, and he fought the urge to throw the damn thing across the room. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples. He just wanted to scream.

He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair. “Thank you for your time,” he managed, the words laced with a strained politeness. He turned and practically fled, the lawyer's polite farewells fading behind him.