The windows were monumental. He stood near the cinematic glass overlooking the activity of Midtown from the 52nd floor. It was just after six in the evening, though the sun poured in over him, like a cascade of warmth from Apollo’s chest. He stood motionless, hands buried deep into the pockets of his Tom Ford trousers, abask in the amber wave.
It was a contemporary space, minimal in nature. There were black leather sofas, art deco prints in thin metal casings, and matching black tables of an unknown metal. The floor was a beige coat of muted carpet, while the Apple Walnut wall behind the receptionist’s quarters served as a reminder that the space was indeed Millbrook Publishing. He observed the surroundings, and though the accoutrements were not his own, he thought Neil was too modest when he spoke.
He was much more than a simple man.
Implode. Part XXXVII – DK