Max Payne is looking haggard. His increasingly lined face has hardened into a permanent grimace and his expanding bulk means there’s no way he’s fitting into the same suits he wore back in his NYPD days. But it’s not just that. The fact that his ageing frame is a lot less suited to being thrown into action than it used to be is compounding matters, sure, but it’s more than that right now.
Max Payne is having a bad night.
The blood from the bullet wound he received earlier, before he even had a chance to fire a single shot, has become dark and caked on the bandage his partner Passos wrapped tightly around his left arm. We’ve been slogging through a Sao Paulo football stadium after-hours with Max for close to 30 minutes. Max is too old to be mixing it up with a bunch of Brazilian gangbangers, and that hole in his arm isn’t helping. You can feel every yard. No, really. You can.
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