Gemotions

He felt the familiar thrumming in his chest, a battle-drumbeat against his ribs. Elias saw his sculpture, "The Weaver," contorted into a cheap, plastic garden gnome at the local mega-mart. His gut twisted at the sight. It was an insult, a defilement of his artistic vision. They had stolen his life's work and cheapened it.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the pulsing in his temples. He knew he was right. They had broken the rules. He walked into the store, his boots echoing on the polished floor, ignoring the confused looks of the shoppers.

He marched through the aisles until he found the offending display. He stood before it, his hands balled into fists, his knuckles white. The store manager, a young man in a stained polo, approached, his eyes narrowing. Elias spoke, his voice low but filled with steel. “This is my work. You have no right.”