Nicholai's lips curls up and his nose wrinkles. Eat? American food? No. No, he's had quite enough of that and he's about to protest when a sandwich is tossed his way. He's forced to catch it and he grimaces at the packaged contents.
"I do not need food, I need vodka." He eyes the locked cabinet. Did they really think that would keep a man like him out? It was almost insulting and Nicholai couldn't smother a sneer from coming full force. The lock wouldn't be a problem once he had found a few utensils around the hefty room.
Peeling back the plastic rapper, the Russian shrugs and rolls his head to the side as he examines the product. Full of preservatives and every other foul chemical the Americans insisted on putting in their food, no doubt. Of course, Nick has been introduced to worse food, but he's not going to make this easy on anyone. Especially not someone he wants dead.
But HUNK's leaving and the Jackal's words train wreck in his throat. "Where the hell are you going?" Those eyes are wide and he's too quick to turn around.