From anyone else, those words would lack the utter sincerity Yohan feels when he says them. He won't look. They don't need to turn a light on. Yohan can simply let Hayun cling to him and peer over the boy's head the whole time. He really does mean what he says.

"Alright," he agrees, letting his eyes fall closed. "They're closed," he adds, in case Hayun couldn't see them in the dimly lit room. The boy's probably in the dark since the sun went down. His eyes are likely already adjusted. Trust doesn't come easily for Yohan. But with Hayun? Somehow he hardly worries the kid's going to stick a knife in his ribs here and now. He even doubts some villain is laying in wait in the darkened rooms to strike.

It's strange to not think these things. It's strange to simply close his eyes and let Hayun lead him slowly, meticulously by the had through the rooms the boy knows so well. It isn't difficult for Yohan to keep his word. Not once is he tempted to pry open even one eye for a look around.

Only once Hayun stops and tells him it's okay to open his eyes does he do so. Of course he blinks against darkness, his eyes naturally straining to adjust. It's easier, actually, since they were closed. Much easier than the adjustment of coming from a well-light room. More than that, Yohan refrains from trying to take in the room, from looking around and risking breaking his promise inadvertently. Keeping his eyes fixed directly ahead, Yohan turns and plops down beside Hayun, reaching over for his hand in the process.