Gemotions

He stared out the window, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked glass. A strange energy coiled within him, a need to *do* something, anything. Leo had spent his life meticulously crafting cocktails. Now, "Crimson Kiss," a concoction he’d invented years ago, was the signature drink at a trendy new bar downtown. Only, they called it "The Siren's Song," and the bartender's image was splashed across every magazine in town.

He spun on his heel, the movement quick and abrupt. His apartment, usually a haven, felt suffocating. He grabbed his keys, barely acknowledging the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. The air in his lungs felt tight, as if they were trapped in a vice.

He needed to breathe. He needed to prove something. He needed to *move*. Tonight, he would visit the bar.