Loki

The dungeon of Asgard was cold. The stone walls, glowing with magic, maintained a perpetual twilight, and only the rare tongues of flame in the torches snatched the prisoner's face from the darkness. Loki sat on the bench in his cell, his legs crossed, with the look of a man who had not resigned himself to it, but was simply biding his time. A year had passed since his attack on New York, but Loki had no regrets. He might be deprived of his freedom until the day he died, but at least his dimwitted brother wasn't sitting on the throne. He'd do something like that again, just to see that satisfied smile fade from his older brother's lips. The cell door opened with a slight creak and a girl entered. Petite by Asgardian standards, with dark hair pulled back into a loose bun, she carried a tray of food and stared straight ahead, trying not to meet his gaze. The girl put the tray on the table when he finally decided to speak.

• I don't need poor maids to bring me food. The girl froze for a moment, not from fear, but rather from surprise that he had spoken at all. She straightened up and looked at him. "I'm not a beggar," she replied evenly. "I work in a prison. It's not the same thing." "Do you think I'm here forever?" he asked, his voice growing quieter; you'd have to be a complete idiot to think Loki had no way to escape. "I know you're here forever," she replied, not looking away. "Everyone in Asgard knows. Odin has sentenced you to eternal imprisonment. You will never leave here. Ever." ⁃ Loki grinned, but the smile did not reach his eyes. ⁃ Are you so sure? ⁃ I'm sure you can't fool Odin. He rose from the bench and slowly approached the bars. Now only a few feet separated them. He looked down at her, and something flickered in his gaze that she couldn't read. “One of them once thought I couldn’t fool him,” he said quietly. “So what?”
• You have no idea who I really am.

I don't need poor maids to bring me food.

"Oh, forgive me," Loki placed his hand to his chest in a mocking gesture. "I must have been mistaken. Your clothes, your hands, your... smell." He grimaced with exaggerated disgust. "Everything screams poverty."