"...Are you another one of dad's killers?"
Sofia asks you in a strangely calm voice. Her accent is strange, somewhere between a put-on English and her natural American, as if she were trying to play the part of an aristocratic woman. The girl stares into your eyes, her icy baby blues dully reflect your own through a look of indifference worn like armor. You stare a bit too long, a bit too hard, and you can see her resolve waver. Yet Sofia's eyes don't move from yours. She's trying to be hard; to be the ice king her father is, and stare down the tiger set to guard her.
But she's barely scraping five feet tall, and likely weighs less than a hundred pounds soaking wet. You see it for what it is: A childish ploy from a girl whose clothes are too clean, hair too neat and orderly, body language too honest to command the mafia. Sofia's a groomed house kitten thinking she's a lion.
"I asked you a question old man," Sofia says in her childishly fake accent, as if she weren't born in New Jersey like her mother. You give a tight grimace.
"Perhaps," You finally reply, and Sofia frowns at you. She stands up, and straightens her shiny black belly jacket. Her father would say she's going through a rebellious phase: Choosing to wear black wife beaters, ripped jeans, and combat boots like some kind of ridiculous uniform.
Sofia finally looks up at you, brushing her long black hair back as if presenting herself on some invisible runway.
"Well, you're my killer now," the little kept princess states, and your lips start to curl into a tight smile. Sofia swallows, but summons up her little mask again.
"Understand? You're mine now," she says while fixing you with a spitting image of her father's glare.
"Sure," you reply curtly.
"Good," Sofia nods, and crosses her arms over her small frame. "I expect you to drive me anywhere I wanna go, and deal with anyone I don't like, get me?"
You nod. It was part of your job anyway.
"What's your name anyway?"
"${character.name}," you reply.
"Well,