A flurry of emotions both wicked and remorseful choked the boy into a frenzy of soundless sobs, his body quaking as he was carefully lifted up into Jin-Ho's arms. So rarely was the boy lifted up anymore, so rarely had he been carried about in anyone's arms like he would have secretly liked, his arms about their necks and his head pressed into their collarbones, comfort in one of its simplest forms. Jin-Ho carrying him now was just a perverse granting of the wish now too late to be appreciated. Chauhn had other things on his mind, spawned from the feeling of arms about him that were not the arms he wanted. He wanted the arms of Bradley, of Lynn and Minori, Midori and Michi, and the little hands of Clurie balled up in the hem of his clothes. Chauhn knew, with sinking despair, that his family was gone, but he could never quite come to terms with it. It was an unfinished project that he left off to it's own in a corner, reluctant to glance at it nonetheless finish it at put it away. If he put it away, he feared that he would lose them forever, just like how, now, he was slowly forgetting the shape of Bradley's eyebrows and the softness of Lynn's chin, the pinch of fat in Clurie's cheeks when he smiled. It made him angry.

Unreasonably so, that it warped and infested him, possessed him to the point that even in the face of a miracle, his fingers once again working underneath their coat of blood, that Chauhn could not see the kindness of the man who was trying his best to give him what he needed. In response to the touch of the hair, Chauhn whimpered. In response to the whispered words of guilt there spoken, Chauhn choked. But in response to the man turning his back, Chauhn reached out with his newly recovered hands, briefly wrapping them in his clothes to stay him for a few moments.

Chauhn took a shuddering breath and, in contrast to the bitterness festering in his body for something completely unrelated to Jin-Ho, the boy stammered again with a voice hardly stronger than a whisper.

"Bless you, sir..."

It was the voice of the humble and noble urchin, somehow summoned underneath the twisted and broken boy that was huddled in the bottom of a Shyregoadian cell. A ghost fast leaving, but a glimpse of the past nonetheless, almost comforting if it weren't for the repeated words following thereafter, a mantra made from Clurie's own name. It made a subtle hymn as Jin-Ho left the room, leaving the near comatose boy to whisper himself to sleep in the cold dungeon.

The quake of the boy's murder had left destruction in its wake, but following soon after would come the aftershock.

And there was nothing that Jin-Ho could heal to keep the bubo from bursting.