Snake stared down into his now-empty carton of low mein. He wanted to go back and get seconds, but he didn't have the luxury of indulging himself. This entire situation might have been some sort of charade. Some bizarre means of alluring him into a trap. And though he would never be so careless as to walk into such a position, in the past, he wasn't exactly at the height of his game. Not with his senses slowing down and his body requiring the necessary rejuvenation process of sleep.
He watched her when she pulled out the knife, his body tensing in preparation for the worst. (In his world, it was either eat or be eaten. And Snake wasn't quite ready to have someone gnawing on his bones.) When she used the blade to cut the Chinese dessert bun, he relaxed (but only slightly.) Then he took the bun in hand and eyed it carefully.
"I haven't seen food like this since before the war," he reminisced. And that was something Snake rarely did. Dwelling on the past only brought up painful memories of loss and devastation, after all. And such memories were irrelevant to the present. "What is this place?"