Brock Kniles =link= 💎 💫

Croft’s face went pale. His hand twitched toward his jacket pocket—a gun, probably silver-plated, useless. The snow hammered against the steel door like a fist. For a long moment, neither man moved.

In its disjointedness, a beauty lies, a truth that's fractured, and unclear. A reflection of the world's disorder, and the artist's hesitant hand. brock kniles

He was taking every meeting. Unsubscribing from emails manually. "Helping" the design team with their fonts. He was a ghost—present everywhere, effective nowhere. Croft’s face went pale