Brock Kniles |verified| (FAST)

But Brock Kniles had a secret.

“Kniles,” Harlow said, flicking a shank made from a melted toothbrush. “Hand over the notebook. And the letter.” brock kniles

He sat on the edge of his bunk, a man built like a failed fortress: broad shoulders slumped, knuckles a constellation of faded scars, and eyes the color of rusted chrome. At forty-seven, Brock had been inside for nineteen years—six for aggravated assault, thirteen more for the prison riot where he’d used a floor buffer cord to strangle a member of the Aryan Brotherhood who’d tried to claim his commissary. The Brotherhood never forgave him. The Latin Kings didn’t trust him. The regular cons just feared the hollow way he laughed. But Brock Kniles had a secret