Refugee camp.
A large pot was bubbling with steam, the enticing aroma spreading, making the eyes of the refugees standing nearby glow green.
Most of the refugees guarding the pot were men. Though not exactly strong and robust, their faces had a bit of color, and their eyes were fairly bright, unlike those other refugees who were on the verge of death.
Despite their longing at this moment, none of these men dared to move recklessly, rather they occasionally cast frightened glances at one person.
This was a man with a scarred face and cold, sinister eyes.
At his waist hung a short knife, somewhat rusty, yet the sharp blade still screamed danger.
Scarface was devouring a sack of dry food voraciously.
In his haste to eat, some crumbs occasionally fell from the corners of his mouth.
Many refugees, seeing this, almost had fire spouting from their eyes.
Many among them hadn't eaten proper food in a very long time.
