The scene opens in Elysium. The kitchen is dim, the only light coming from a single overhead fixture casting a dull glow over a wooden table. 

At the center of the table, a plate rests – its contents sparse: a torn piece of bread, a thin slice of meat, and a smear of something unidentifiable. Anton Savor stands over it, his fingers resting lightly on the dish. 

“Hunger, you know, is quite the concept. It distorts perception, twisting the mind into believing that anything placed before it is a gift. 

A man starved long enough will devour whatever is placed before him, never once considering its quality, or where it even came from. He will take and take, because in his desperation, he cannot afford to refuse.

And that, Drewitt, is what they are counting on.”

Anton lifts the piece of bread between his fingers, pressing it slightly. It cracks at his touch, the edges brittle.

“You have convinced yourself that this is a meal. That what you have been given is sustenance. That it will restore you and make you whole again. 

Because you see, after all the suffering, after all the betrayal, after Zeus cast you aside and let you wither, you have finally been offered something. And when you are starving, you do not ask questions.

You do not ask why the hand that feeds you now was absent when your stomach first wrenched with hunger. You do not ask why they let you weaken, let you suffer. Only to present you with an offering when you were at your lowest.”

His hand tightens around the bread, and with a simple motion, it crumbles between his fingers, falling in dry flakes onto the plate.

“You tell yourself that, perhaps, it doesn’t matter. That food is food. Happiness is happiness. And that it does not matter who places the meal before you, only that it is there. 

But comfort is not freedom, Drewitt. It is the illusion of freedom, carefully crafted to keep you docile. To make you believe that you are whole when in reality, you are still starving.”

Anton moves his hand to the thin slice of meat, lifting it slightly before letting it fall back onto the plate. 

“Because, Drewitt, they are not feeding you to make you strong. They are feeding you just enough to keep you obedient. Just enough to make you believe in them, to make you think that you owe them something.

But hunger, you see, does not end. A man fed scraps will always want more. He will always wait, always hope for the next offering. Trapped at the mercy of those who decide when, and if, he eats.”

Anton takes the plate in his hands, and without hesitation, tips it over the edge of the table, the remnants spilling onto the ground. 

“And when they decide that you have had enough? When the plate is taken away from you and the hands that fed you turn elsewhere, what will you be left with, Drewitt?

Nothing.

Except the hunger.”