Chapter 312 Ch Three Hundred And Twelve

• For a long time, far beyond what he could remember, Malcolm felt sickly, like he was soon going to be down with fever or something. He sat in his office, the air around him colder than usual, while staring at nothing in particular.
• He sat with one hand loosely gripping his fountain pen, the other holding his phone as if he might suddenly come alive, if he instantly got the call he wanted and had been waiting for from the person he wanted to speak to.
• His mind had roamed endlessly all night, and he was unable to sleep because he kept thinking about how he would execute every of his plans perfectly without getting anything messed up more than they already were.