Gemotions

Agnes slammed the blueprints down on the table, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent workshop. Her hands, usually deft and precise, were clenched into fists, the knuckles white against her skin. *Patented. Bloody hell.* The phrase, emblazoned across the patent paperwork she held, felt like a branding iron. She stared at the name – Bartholomew Finch – and a wave of nausea rolled over her. Finch, the pompous, self-proclaimed genius. He’d probably stolen the idea from someone, just like he always did.

She kicked a toolbox, the metal sending a sharp pain up her leg. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. All those late nights, all that meticulous work, wasted. Months of her life, down the drain. She’d envisioned the device revolutionizing agriculture, a boon to farmers everywhere. Now? It was Finch’s toy. She wanted to smash something, anything.