Hope had learned to appreciate food in a way that most people in the room probably never would.
Back in the outskirts, every meal was a battle.
There were no guarantees—no certainty that you'd have something to eat the next day.
That was why he ate slowly and carefully, savoring the taste, taking his time despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
Still, he wasn't the type to stop at just one plate.
Once his first portion was finished, he stood up and returned for another, ignoring the curious looks from the students who were already full after a single meal.
He didn't care.
Free food was a blessing.
And Hope had no intention of wasting a single opportunity.
So there he was—working through his second plate, his pace steady, his focus completely on the meal in front of him.
That was when he noticed movement beside him.
The silver-haired girl had finished eating.
She wasn't able to finish her plate, and as she turned to discard what was left, Hope's body moved on instinct.
He grabbed her plate, stopping her before she could dump it.
"Don't waste food."
His voice was calm, but firm, as if what she was about to do was the most unforgivable sin imaginable.
The girl blinked, caught off guard.
The muscular guy and the skinny one stiffened, their spoons freezing mid-air.
The silver-haired girl didn't protest, though. She just gave him a look before shrugging and letting go of the plate.
Hope shamelessly added it to his own, his eyes gleaming as he saw the extra portion.
Jackpot.
But while his roommates kept their reactions to themselves, the rest of the dining hall was not as quiet.
The moment he took her plate, whispers started spreading around the room.
Hope could hear the murmuring, the quiet scoffs, and the barely concealed chuckles.
Some students were amused, others were disgusted.
"Did you see that?"
"This guy's a pig."
"He just stole food from a girl…"
"No shame at all."
Hope's ears twitched as he picked up the insults, but he didn't even bother looking up.
He had lived through worse.
People talked.
People always talked.
Especially the ones who had never been truly hungry in their lives.
He ignored them, continuing to eat with the same focused intensity, unbothered by the judgmental stares around him.
But then, when the murmurs grew louder, he finally paused.
He picked up a spoonful of food, held it in front of his face, and then glanced around the room—his expression unreadable.
Then he sighed.
"Allow me to eat in peace."
His voice wasn't angry or defensive.
It was just tired—as if he couldn't understand why people were so fixated on something as simple as food.
Then, without another word, he dived back into his meal, eating with the same ruthless efficiency that he had perfected as a scavenger.
At that moment, he wasn't a contestant.
He wasn't a student in some government-run training institute.
He was just a survivor.
And survivors never let food go to waste.