Jaime had finally made it to the cafeteria, his insistent hunger finally overriding his horror and shame at what he had (might have?) done the night before. It was around the lunch hour, so a few patients were finally emerging into the common areas, many sporting a few bruises or split lips as souvenirs of the wild night before.
He quietly collected a sandwich and tried to find the most unobtrusive corner possible, where he could eat in peace and maybe, y'know, curl up and die.
This behavior is unproductive. Interrogate <prisoners> about recent events.
He didn’t even have the strength to correct the bug’s terminology, instead letting his head hit the table. He stayed that way, hungover and exhausted and lonely, until he felt a brisk blow to the top of his head.