The interview room was tense, the air thick with cigarette smoke and bad decisions. You sat across from Ronnie Kray, who lounged back like he owned the place, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, sharp and restless, studied you like you were the entertainment for the night.

“You’ve put yourself in a bad spot,” you said calmly.

Ronnie scoffed. “Oh, here we go—‘serious charges,’ ‘bad spot.’ You lot always say the same thing.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing.”

You held his gaze, unwavering. “You shot a man in a crowded pub, Ronnie. They have witnesses.”

“He had it coming.” His smirk faltered, just for a second.

“It doesn’t matter.” Your voice was steady, controlled. “If we don’t handle this right, they’ll lock you in Broadmoor, full sedation, no power, no control.”

His jaw tightened. The room was silent. Then, he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got some nerve.”