Gemotions

He’d seen the billboards first. Miles and miles of them, plastered across the highway. “Chef Jean-Pierre’s Magical Truffles.” Thomas, slumped in his worn armchair, felt a cold dread crawl up his spine, freezing his lungs. They were selling *his* truffles.

His hands shook as he scrolled through the endless articles online, each one singing the praises of the “innovative” new delicacy. The photograph – a studio shot, bright and shiny – mirrored the recipe Thomas had painstakingly handwritten in a dusty notebook, now locked away in his attic. He wanted to break something, to shatter the illusion of success.

He tried to distract himself, to find solace in the mundane, but the faces of the happy customers, devouring his creation, haunted his thoughts. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of injustice. Each click of the mouse felt like another nail in his coffin of anonymity.