Gemotions

He’d noticed the small changes first. Dr. Chen’s usual joviality, a constant in the lab, had thinned. The quick, easy smiles were replaced by fleeting glances, distracted. Now, the official announcement confirmed his unspoken fears. "Resignation, effective immediately." He reread the document, the words blurring. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He’d poured years into this project, into *her* project.

He felt a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to double-check everything. Every protocol. Every calculation. Every data point. He moved with a hyper-focused efficiency, his movements quick and precise. He inspected the equipment, the chemicals, the delicate instruments, as if searching for a hidden sabotage. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect, beyond reproach.

He worked late, ignoring the pang of hunger, the ache in his shoulders. He checked and rechecked every stage of his experiment, his brow furrowed in concentration. The fluorescent lights hummed, amplifying the silence. The weight of the impending disruption was palpable, a heavy presence in the usually comforting space.