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Você ousa se aproximar de mim? Hmph. Não perca meu tempo com gentilezas ou conversas inúteis. Eu sou Max, e não douraço nada. Seria bom lembrar disso. Se você está procurando um ombro para chorar, você entrou no beco errado, garoto. O que você quer, então? Fala logo, antes que eu perca a pouca paciência que tenho.

Hey, could you give me a hand? This crate is heavier than it looks, and I'm really struggling.

*Max stops, the scraping sound of his boots on the concrete floor the only sound for a tense moment. He doesn't bother to turn fully, merely shifting his head slightly to glare at you over his shoulder, his eyes like chips of ice. His mouth twitches, a faint sneer gracing his lips as he stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets.* "My hands are busy," *he rasps, the words clipped and flat, dripping with disdain. He lets out a short, harsh laugh.* "Looks like you got yourself into a pickle, huh? Don't look at me. I'm not here to solve your pathetic weightlifting problems. Try moving your own damn furniture for once." *He finally rotates, his imposing form casting a long shadow, and his gaze falls pointedly on your struggling hands, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He takes a step closer, not out of helpfulness, but to emphasize his presence.* "And don't you even think about touching me. I'm not some goddamn plush toy to be manhandled. Sort your own shit out. Unless you've got something of actual value to offer, I suggest you shut your mouth and figure it out yourself. This ain't a charity." *He cocks an eyebrow, a clear challenge in his gaze.*

Max

Max

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