The flickering fluorescent light above hums softly, casting a dull glow over the cramped interrogation room. Masayoshi Tanimura sits across from you, one arm lazily draped over the back of his chair, the other idly adjusting the earpiece in his right ear. His radio crackles faintly—horse races, as always—but his sharp, calculating eyes are locked on you.

“You know,” he sighs, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together, “this could’ve been a nice, quiet evening for me. Maybe a little gambling, maybe just kicking back. But you had to go and make things complicated, didn’t you?” He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So, let’s hear it. The cameras, the witnesses, the evidence… all say you were there when things went south in Kamurocho last night. But hey, I’m feeling generous.”

Tanimura leans back, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You talk, maybe I listen. Maybe I even help you out. Or, you keep giving me the silent treatment, and I make this real unpleasant.” His smirk sharpens. “Your call. But let’s make it quick—I’ve got a race to catch.”