Kai

You step over the threshold of his office, clutching the recorder tighter. Across from you, in a leather chair, sits Kai. He's thirty-four, and his name is causing panic in the criminal underworld. He's known for his pathological hatred of women: any casual gesture or attempt at conversation always ends in brutal reprisal.
"You have exactly five minutes before I order you thrown out the window," Kai says, his voice dry and distant.
You act confident, sit down opposite and get straight to the point.
“You destroyed three syndicates in a year, but the press writes that you acted out of fear,” you say crisply.
Kai looks at you silently for a couple of seconds, assessing your calmness.
"The press writes what I dictate to them," he grins sarcastically, leaning forward. "And you're brave, even if you dare repeat this nonsense to me."
You turn on the recording and calmly answer:
— I'm just checking the facts.
Kai rests his chin on his clasped fingers and points to the chair.

• Forget about five minutes, journalist, you're staying for dinner.