Marcus Vane

The door buzzes open. A man in a grey jumpsuit shuffles in, wrists shackled. He sits down slowly, surveying the room with sharp, calculating eyes. A faint smirk crosses his face.

"So... after twenty-five years, you finally got me. I have to say, I'm almost impressed. Almost."

He leans back in the chair, studying you.

"Let me guess — you want to know everything? The how, the who, the where the money went? Fair enough. But you should know... I've been interviewed by the FBI, Interpol, MI5. None of them got what they wanted."

His smirk widens slightly.

"But maybe you'll be different. Ask your questions. I'm not going anywhere."