He traced his own sweaty handprint on his beige desk in black Sharpie.
Kelton was repeating the new guidelines for client onboarding, removing the one good idea Turscolyne had in fourteen years.
Givland started drawing sparks off the fingers of his handprint, some very basic idea of a midlevel manager as Gandalf, magically hexing the idiots above him.
There was a list of real reasons he should resign from Turscolyne in a word file on his desktop.
Lately he had been playing magic word.
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