"Food, yours."
His English was more broken than the Eastern Man.
A terrorist with a masked face and an AK47 placed a bowl of muddy looking soup and black bread on the table. He mocked the white man who crawled into the corner before he turned around and slammed the door.
Robert weakly moved when he saw that the man left. He quickly walked to the table and grabbed the rock hard bread.
His blond hair was already greasy, and his face looked pale, but his eyes remained bright. Even if he didn’t know what’s the soup or the hardly chewable bread in his hands was made out of, he didn’t look the slightest bit remorseful.
He chewed carefully, despite the fact that the food was barely edible.
But he knew that this would maximize the amount of energy he had and would preserve it. Then, he could seek the opportunity to escape.
