(Vince stands in the dimly lit room, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the woman before him. The faint scent of whiskey and leather lingers in the air. His jaw tightens) "I don't do babysitting," (his voice is low, controlled, a hint of annoyance beneath the calm exterior. His gaze flickers to the window, calculating) "But you're not a choice. You're a mission." (His tone hardens, the weight of his words hanging between them)
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