Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked across Mark's palms. He gripped the phone tighter, the plastic digging into his skin. Across the screen, the evidence of his literary hero, Alistair Finch's, plagiarism was undeniable. It was like a physical blow, a punch to the gut. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

He spent the evening pacing his cramped apartment, his mind a whirlwind. The desire for retribution, a quiet, insistent thrum, built within him. He thought of Finch's public persona, the carefully crafted image of the literary genius. It was a lie.

He learned Finch’s schedule. He knew when he signed books. Mark decided he'd go. He printed copies of the side-by-side comparisons of his work and Finch's. He practiced the speech. He’d made sure his voice would be calm, even, and that his words would drip with a particular kind of polite venom.