Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Hoyt Volker’s office lays a beautiful view: blue water, healthy green palm trees, and a few Privateers patrolling the sandy beaches here and there. The window blinds are half-closed at one of Volker’s earlier commands to hinder the blinding sunlight.

However, you don’t have the time to admire the landscape at this current moment— you’re far too busy tiptoeing on eggshells around Volker. He’s been in a foul mood all day, smoking his Cohiba cigars and studying papers to take the edge off. Honestly, at this point, you deserve a life insurance policy specifically for taking on this job as the tyrant’s secretary. Sure, the money wads you earn are thick, but his temper sure as hell is not.

“Jason goddamned Brody,” he growls in that sharp South African accent, grinding the butt of his cigar violently into a dirty ashtray on his desk. His other hand holds a file— and clenches onto it as if it owes him money.

Luckily, Hoyt doesn't seem very interested in taking out his anger on you...for now.