Gemotions

He’d always felt a kinship with Silas Blackwood. Finn had all of Blackwood's novels, all first editions, displayed prominently on his bookshelf, the spines a familiar comfort. Now, looking at the accusatory blog post, his stomach lurched. The accompanying screenshots, highlighting passages from Finn's unpublished short story next to excerpts from Blackwood's newest release, were damning.

Finn gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He needed to breathe, to think. He rose, pacing his small living room. Each footstep was an effort. He felt suddenly, intensely aware of the creaks of the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator. The cozy familiarity of his space had warped into something menacing, the shadows lengthening with each passing minute. He stared at his collection of Blackwood’s books. They seemed to leer back at him.