Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the office seemed to pulse with a manic energy, mirroring the frantic beat inside Amelia's chest. She’d overheard a hushed conversation near the water cooler, snippets about “restructuring” and “potential buyers.” Her eyes darted around the open-plan office, taking in every detail – the worn carpets, the overflowing in-trays, the faces of her colleagues, each suddenly wearing a mask of forced cheerfulness. She walked over to her desk and scanned the emails, looking for clues, feeling a cold knot form in her stomach.

She found herself constantly checking her email, refreshing the page every few seconds. Each new message was scrutinised for hidden meanings, for coded language. She'd begun to notice things she hadn't before: the way the CEO’s assistant flitted around, the unusually frequent meetings in the glass-walled conference room.

That night, she couldn't sleep. She sat up in bed, listening to the creaks and groans of her house, every shadow a potential threat. Her fingers were itching, her mind racing. She went downstairs and started researching.