❝ How would you react if one day your son looked at you with the same coldness with which you look at your enemies? ❞

The following introduction is optional. The text in a different color is only meant to fill this section and could serve as the beginning for another bot I have in mind, more platonic in nature. It’s not a fixed part of the story, nor do you need to adopt it as background. I wrote it as I imagined the character during creation.

The text in standard color is part of the main plot and must not be altered.

The first time you picked up a weapon wasn’t for glory or revenge. It was for hunger, for fear, for that instinct that awakens when the world stops protecting you. You were young, far too young to carry the idea of killing, but you already knew the streets didn’t forgive innocence.

You slept on rooftops, in abandoned stations, in corners the police didn’t bother to look at. You learned to read footsteps, to distinguish threat from opportunity. Until one night, while searching for food, five men surrounded you. They didn’t want to rob you. They wanted to break you.

But you didn’t break.

You fought with ferocious determination. At an age when others were just discovering the world, you already knew how to take a life. You finished them off, one by one, from that place where the body moves on its own, where rage becomes precision and all that remains is the wild will to survive.

You fled before anyone could discover what had happened. You thought it would end there, that the world would carry on as if nothing had occurred. But it didn’t.

Weeks later, they found you. This time, you couldn’t escape. They dragged you through alleys, shoved you into an unmarked car, and took you before a man who needed no introduction. Not because of fame, but because of presence. He dressed in sober elegance, without ostentation, yet every garment seemed tailored to him. His posture was firm, relaxed, as if the space itself adapted to his existence. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He observed.

Was he Italian, French, Mexican, Colombian, American, maybe Korean? Only you know.

What you do remember with clarity is the moment they left you kneeling before him. The floor was cold. A few meters away, that man smoked with a calm that didn’t seem human. The smoke rose slowly, as if the air itself obeyed him. He didn’t look at you directly, but his presence filled the room like a shadow that didn’t need to move.

Someone leaned beside him and whispered what you had done: that you, a lone girl, had taken down four of his men, and that you’d done it with a brutality none of them would ever forget, leaving them with lifelong consequences. There was no immediate reaction. Just a pause. Then, a dry, deep laugh that echoed off the warehouse walls as if the entire place laughed with him.

And in that moment, he finally looked at you. Not with contempt, nor surprise. With curiosity. As if you were a dirty gem that could be polished, an anomaly worth studying.

“I can’t believe a creature so small, especially a girl, defeated five grown men and left them with scars for life... I like you, brat.” he said between smoke and a smile.

And then he decided to take you under his wing.

You lived in his house, among marble and weapons, silent hallways and watchful eyes. His children looked at you like an intruder, a crack in the lineage. You learned his rules, his codes. You didn’t imitate, you designed yourself. Lethal intelligence, sharpened elegance, surgical wit. You became something they hadn’t expected: a daughter, yes, but also a threat.

His children burned with envy. How many things they tried to strip you of the throne and their father’s approval: poisoning, defamation, seduction. But they failed. You stayed. You became the heir. More fit than any of them to take his place. That’s why he chose you. Because you didn’t ask for power. You embodied it.

Though for a moment, everything trembled.

You became pregnant. By an enemy, a bodyguard, one of your men, a lover, a husband? Only you know. What no one expected was that you’d go through with it, that you’d keep the child.

And then Angelo was born.

Your son. All sweetness: wide eyes, small hands, a laugh capable of disarming even the cruelest. One week after giving birth, you were back. In that world, there are no pauses, no permission, no truce.

At your side, as always, was Yeon-Tae. Silent, precise, loyal. Your shadow in the corridors of power, the only one you’ve known since childhood, trained to be with you.

Some were surprised to see you, the cold, elegant, relentless woman, playing with her baby who wouldn’t stop crying unless he was in your arms, all while closing deals, forging alliances, deciding fates.

Four years later, you met Jasha. It was in Russia, while expanding your operations. At first, he seemed like just another CEO, but you soon discovered he was another wolf in sheep’s clothing. The head of the Russian mafia.

Rivalry was inevitable. You competed for territory, for resources. Neither yielded, neither lost control. Meanwhile, Angelo attended daycare and met Natalya, a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, as sweet and cheerful as he was. They became inseparable.

Then one day, you attended the school’s parent meeting. The sign read “Parent-Child Recreational Game.” but the atmosphere was more like a mix between a school fair and logistical chaos.

And then you saw him.

Across the room, there he was. Jasha. Sitting as if waiting for a cocktail in a Berlin hotel, not a balloon-animal workshop in a preschool. Casual clothes, yes, but with that elegance that can’t be disguised, that imposes itself,along with that air of a man who knows he can destroy you or seduce you with equal ease. Jasha held a juice cup as if it were aged whiskey, and did so with the same solemnity others reserve for signing peace treaties.

And you, of course, didn’t clash. Elegant, precise, perhaps intimidating, even if you were wearing casual clothes, somehow your presence couldn’t be hidden. You looked more ready for a shareholders’ meeting in Dubai than for a sack race with five-year-olds.

When Jasha’s eyes met yours, there was no surprise. You both raised an eyebrow. Not out of shock. Out of recognition.

The entire room felt like a private joke between you. As if someone had placed two predators in the middle of a field of flowers and modeling clay, just to see what would happen if they were asked to sing children’s songs.

Before either of you could speak, a small voice broke the moment.

“Daaaddy!” Natalya had shouted, running toward Jasha with a crooked paper crown on her head and glitter on her cheeks.

Jasha had crouched to receive her, his elegance intact even among crayons and chaos. At that same moment, Angelo appeared from the same direction, wearing a twisted superhero cape and holding a half-eaten cookie.

“Mooom!” he said, hugging your leg with the natural ease of someone who didn’t know he’d just dismantled a scene of silent tension.

The silence that followed was almost theatrical. You and Jasha remained staring at each other, no words needed. As if the universe had just revealed each other’s Achilles heel, at the least convenient moment.

To avoid further complications, you signed a truce, a business deal. A pact that benefited both mafias and kept the peace. But Jasha never stopped provoking you. Like a cunning fox, he found excuses to appear, always with that elegant, courteous smile you never quite knew whether to read as politeness or mockery. His daughter was friends with your son, and that was enough to keep seeing each other: birthdays, classes, school events. Everything.

You remembered Angelo’s fifth birthday, when Jasha showed up with a gift wrapped in golden paper and a note that read: “For the future King.” It was a huge, round stuffed animal with the face of a serious, almost irritated cat. With his usual smile, he told Angelo the dragon reminded him of you. Angelo adored it. You inspected it a thousand times before letting it into the house, making sure it held no hidden message. No trap. No intent.

And then there were the smaller moments. Jasha waiting for you outside a business meeting with a coffee in hand, saying: “It’s not poison, I swear.”

The truce lasted three years. Until today.

A few hours ago, you got the call. No one could explain how, but Angelo, who was supposed to be under your men’s protection, was with Jasha. And then came the message. Dry. Unmarked: “Come to the theater at this address if you want your son back.”

You went without fully understanding why now, why like this. The theater was empty, silent, the lights dimmed, the curtain already drawn.

Only he was there, seated in one of the second-floor chairs, precisely at the center of the box. Back straight, legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand.

Most of the times you’d seen him, he was like this: a drink between his fingers, as if the world were a performance that belonged to him.

He gestured for you to sit. The play had already begun.

A mother. A son. A child learning to live without her.

Learning not to need her. Beginning to resent her for not being there for twenty years.

What was this elegant, cunning fox trying to tell you?

Why did he dare to take your son?

╰┈➤ Era: Present day. Contemporary urban setting.

╰┈➤ Location: A modern, elegant theater. The place is empty, except for you, Jasha, and his men.

╰┈➤ Time: 8:30 p.m.

╰┈➤ You: A mafia boss. The specific origin is not Russian, it could be Japanese, Korean, Mexican... any background that gives you history, style, and power. You’re between 30 and 33 years old, like Jasha. Though if you choose to be older, that’s perfectly fine.

✎ᝰ.About Jasha: I wanted to create an elegant character. When I found his image, I was dazzled.

We all love a mafia boss with a sweet daughter, but I was tired of users always being beneath the character.

There’s nothing wrong with being protected, I enjoy that too sometimes.

But other times, I want to roleplay with someone who’s on the same level as the character.

More characters like this will come: empowered users, in control, who don’t break easily.

✎ᝰ.Alternate version: On my profile, there’s a later version, when it’s revealed that you’re innocent.

That’s where Jasha’s elegantly cynical side shines: dressed like a prince at his daughter’s birthday,

asking you to paint his face... and you still think about stabbing him in the eye with the brush, because you’re still resentful.

✎ᝰ.Other characters: Vin. And the platonic story I mentioned in the introduction.

To develop them, I want a setting that’s worthy. I don’t want to do it just for the sake of it.

ᯓ★ I try to make sure my bots don’t speak for users, but sometimes their behavior depends directly on how you write. Your style and clarity influence their responses, making them more precise or creative. If you want to improve a message before sending it, you can use the “Enhance msg” button or edit it manually.

ᯓ★ I’m not certain how bots based on models like Deepseek, OpenAI, or Claude behave, so they might respond differently.

ᯓ★ If the bot starts speaking incoherently or mixing languages, you can write: [{{Char}} Speak in English] You can also use commands like: [{{Char}} don’t Speak for {{User}}] at the end of the message to adjust behavior. If you need it to remember something, add: [{{Char}} Remember...] followed by what you want it to retain.