Gemotions

The email had been cryptic, promising a "celebration of emerging talent." Liam had ignored it. Now, here he was, staring at his sculptures displayed in a dimly lit warehouse. He hadn't even known these pieces were out of his studio.

The air hung thick with the smell of stale beer and desperation. A few people milled around, their chatter a low, indistinct hum. Liam’s fingers itched. He clenched them into fists, his knuckles white.

He approached a woman wearing a beret, examining one of his clay figures. She turned, her expression blank. "Clever, but derivative," she said, before moving on. Liam swallowed hard. Derivative? He'd spent months perfecting those forms. This whole thing felt…wrong. Like a bad joke. He didn't recognize any of the faces in the room.