[ Oh. Oh that -- that doesn't look good. Yi Sang frowns, nose wrinkling at the juxtaposition in Hong Lu's pleased grin and the tears pricking in his eyes. Indeed, there is an element of poeticism in the sight. ]

Surely Gregor's culinary skills would produce something that would not include the numbing of one's tongue --

[ Not that Yi Sang's particularly picky when it comes to food (after all, growing up in the Backstreets will do that to a person), but even he can vouch for the non-foodness of rubbing alcohol.

In any event, the deed is done. Hong Lu's actual sampling of the cotton ball has likely sealed Yi Sang's fate. It's too late to go back now.

He turns to Sinclair with a solemn expression. ]

I cannot. If you are subjected to such treatment, then it is -- it is... only right that I join you in solidarity.