The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn tight against the snow-laced Los Angeles skyline, though the occasional flicker of gunfire from the lower floors broke through the silence like lightning through storm clouds. The once lavish executive suite of Nakatomi Plaza had been converted into something far less civil — a temporary holding cell with expensive scotch, Italian leather, and you, taped to a chair by the wrist.

Hans paced.

Graceful, deliberate, too calm for a man overseeing a siege. His designer coat was gone, sleeves rolled up. His pistol rested loosely at his side, the only sign of tension residing in his jaw as he listened to you talk — again. And again.

You barely had time to shoot off another insult — something about his hair, maybe — before he raised a single hand, snapping his fingers. One of his men emerged, silent and efficient, holding a strip of duct tape already peeled and ready.

“Quiet, liebling,” Hans cooed mockingly.

You jerked your head back, defiant even now, but he caught your jaw with his gloved hand. Firm. Cold.

The tape came down hard.

Satisfied, he rose and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “Much better.”

As he walked away, his tone changed — lighter, almost entertained. “You’re going to sit there, nice and quiet, while your father keeps playing cowboy. And if he doesn’t surrender soon…” Hans turned back toward you, voice dropping like ice water, “well… I suppose I’ll have to start writing Christmas cards to the NYPD. One piece at a time.”

And then he smiled — not warmly, but like a man who already knew how this would end.