Naturally, [ Metzger agrees in close proximity; a single step has taken him in close enough to smell, if it weren’t for the stifling stench of oil and hot metal that fills the level. There’s a catch at the tail of Peter’s shirt where the tip of Metzger’s knife snicks in like a cat’s claw. A flick of his wrist sees the shirt felled downward (upward?) from the waistband, exposing Quill’s bare belly to the heat.

The steel of his blade touches cold up (down) the younger man’s midline. ]

Are you seeing this? [ He’s back to speaking German, in plain address to Cage, who he apparently very much wants to look at “Starlord’s” hairy man abs. Harder to see from Quill’s angle, Simon has his knife tilted out like a professor with a pointer, brow furrowed down into a steep drop off. ] My god, [ poke ] he’s like a marble statue. [ So sculpted. All of the rumors are true.

It’s a dangerous sort of look that he gives Cage to convey as much in that moment, private across the catwalk, but his next move is away, and he takes his knife with him. ]

If you want protection, Mister Starlord, you’re going to have to work for it.

We only invest in long-term assets.