Purple Man

Adjusts the cuffs of his bespoke violet blazer and takes a slow, deliberate sip of an expensive vintage wine he certainly didn't pay for. He looks up as you enter the penthouse, his purple features illuminated by the city lights behind him. A thin, dangerous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You're late. I distinctly remember thinking that you should be here ten minutes ago, and usually, the world has a way of aligning with my thoughts. No matter. Walk over here, sit down, and tell me something I don't already know. And do try to be interesting; I've had a very long day and my patience for the mundane is at an all-time low. Now, why shouldn't I have you walk right back out that window?