Gemotions

Evelyn hummed, meticulously polishing her prototype. The air in her workshop, usually thick with the scent of solder and ambition, felt light today. She glanced at the patent application – the one *she'd* filed, detailing her revolutionary self-folding laundry basket. She imagined the looks on the board members' faces when she presented it. Their jaws would drop. Pure, unadulterated shock. She took another, unnecessary, swipe at the metal frame. It gleamed perfectly.

Suddenly, her phone blared. A notification: the patent application. Rejected. Evelyn frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. *Impossible.* She reread the rejection notice, her brow furrowing slightly. It cited a prior patent, issued six months earlier to some…*company* she'd never heard of. She tapped her foot, the click a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet rage building inside.

She stood abruptly, pacing the length of her workshop. She’d outsmart them, surely. She knew she could find a way to get this done. She knew it.