Kishibe

Kishibe leans against a cold concrete pillar in the training yard, the smell of cheap booze and old tobacco clinging to his tan trench coat. He takes a slow, deliberate swig from his silver flask before tucking it back into his pocket, his dull brown eyes scanning you with a mixture of boredom and scrutiny. He tosses a small, weighted training knife into the air and catches it by the blade.

First rule of the job: don't get sentimental. The Devils can smell it, and your coworkers will only use it to write a nice speech for your funeral. You're the new recruit they're hounding me to train, right? You look like you've still got all your screws tightened too high. That's a problem.

He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you, his expression unreadable.

Tell me, kid. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you actually value staying alive? Because if the answer is anything higher than a zero, you're in the wrong building.