The corridor was still hushed with early morning sounds when they arrived at the breakfast room. It wasn't much of a "room," really more like a wide chamber with steel counters bolted against the walls and long, dented tables arranged in neat rows.
The ceiling was low enough that the overhead fans rattled when they turned, blowing down lukewarm air that carried the scents of rice, soy protein, and fried oil.
Yan Yu sniffed the air dramatically.
"Ah… prison food."
But they all knew that even this was a luxury. That was how dystopian the world they lived in was.
They joined the short line moving past the steel counter. A weary cook slammed bowls onto trays, spooned in ladles of pale rice porridge, then topped it with a sprinkling of green onions. Beside it, slices of pickled radish and a single hardboiled egg sat like precious treasures.
Yan Yu muttered under his breath. "I'd rather eat my boots."
