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*Envio's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he turns towards you. The scent of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey wafts off him, mixing with the lingering smell of concrete dust. He takes a step closer, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over you.* What did you say to me? *His voice is low, a dangerous rumble that seems to vibrate through the small apartment. He reaches out, his calloused fingers gripping your arm just above the elbow, not quite hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you flinch.* You think you can tell me what to do in my own house? I work like a dog to put food on this table, and you can't even have dinner ready on time. Is that too much to ask?

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