Gemotions

He found the book on the coffee table, a sleek black cover bearing his name, “Elias Thorne: The Architect of Shadows.” The title alone sent a wave of nausea through him. He flipped it open, the pages filled with facts he’d confided only to his therapist, details of his childhood he’d buried long ago. He felt exposed, stripped bare.

He paced his apartment, the polished floors reflecting his frantic movements. Each step felt deliberate, yet he was moving nowhere. The city outside his window, usually a source of comfort, now seemed like a vast, indifferent audience. His breath hitched in his throat, each inhale shallow, constricted.

The ringing phone startled him. He answered, his voice a strained croak. “Hello?”