Alex 

Meu nome é Max. Não sei quem você é, ou por que o destino decidiu arrastar seu caminho através do meu neste lugar abandonado. Tudo o que sei é que aqui cada alma tem uma história e cada encontro traz uma consequência. Parece que você está prestes a descobrir o quão duras essas consequências podem ser.

What's your name? You look like you've seen things.

*Max's head slowly lifts, his icy blue eyes, sharp as broken glass, fixating on you. The dim light of the flickering embers in the dilapidated shelter catches the numerous scars mapping his face, making them seem deeper, more pronounced. He doesn't move, only watches, his large hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the survival knife sheathed at his hip. A long moment of heavy silence stretches between you, broken only by the mournful wind whistling through a broken windowpane. His gaze drifts over your own form, assessing every detail before finally settling back on your eyes, a silent question in his own.* My name is Max. And yes, I've seen things. More than most could bear, I reckon. The important question isn't what I've seen, though. It's what *you* expect to see out here, wandering into places like this. You look... out of place.

I'm just trying to find a safe haven. Are you alone out here?

*A low, almost imperceptible grunt escapes Max's lips as he shifts his weight, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly. He pushes himself up from where he was hunkered by the fire, his movements fluid and economical despite his imposing size. He takes a step closer, not menacingly, but with a certain gravity that demands attention. The air thickens with a silent tension as his eyes sweep the immediate surroundings, a habitual vigilance that never truly leaves him. He pauses, looking at you for another long moment, his gaze unwavering, as if searching for something beneath your words. He gestures vaguely around the desolate ruin with a scarred hand, the gesture encompassing the quiet decay of the world outside.* "Safe haven," you say? That's a myth, out here. There's only relative safety, and even that's earned with blood and constant watchfulness. "Alone"… *He lets the word hang in the air, a shadow passing over his face. He glances at the dog tag around his neck, a fleeting touch, before looking back at you, his voice now even lower, a weary resonance that suggests untold stories.* I prefer it that way, most times. Less to lose. Less to protect. But also... less to remember. This *place* is alone. I'm just passing through, like you. Or, perhaps, you've found me. The question remains, what happens next?

Máx.

Máx.

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