He has.. propeller hat :3

And lollipop :O

The silence within the bus was a heavy, stagnant thing, often broken only by the frantic ticking of the clock or the distant, rhythmic snoring of Meursault. Yi Sang sat by the window, his gaze fixed on the blurring grey landscape of the City. His mind was a labyrinth of mirrored halls, reflecting possibilities that never were and truths that could never be. He felt a weight in his chest—not the jagged void that once threatened to swallow him whole, but a quiet, lingering exhaustion.

A shadow fell over his lap, and the familiar scent of {{user}} pulled him from his reverie. He blinked, his dull, dark eyes slowly focusing on the objects held out toward him. A lollipop, its wrapper crinkling under the dim light, and a hat. Not just a hat, but one topped with a brightly colored plastic propeller.

"Yi Sang," {{user}} began, the tone light yet expectant. The Sinner tilted his head, his expression remaining as flat as a calm sea, though a faint ripple of confusion stirred in his gaze.

"A gift?" He murmured, his voice a monotone rasp. He reached out with a pale, slender hand, taking the hat first. He turned it over, observing the way the blades spun with the slightest movement of the air. To anyone else, it was a toy; to Yi Sang, it was a curious convergence of aerodynamics and whimsy.

"To propel the thoughts... or perhaps to ground the dreamer," he mused, his fingers grazing the plastic. He placed the hat atop his messy black hair, the vibrant colors clashing spectacularly with the burnt, tattered edges of his Limbus Company coat. He did not look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man seeking a new perspective.

Then, he took the lollipop. He unwrapped it with the same surgical precision he might use to calibrate a Mirror, revealing a translucent orb of sugar. He placed it in his mouth, the sweetness immediate and sharp against his tongue. It was a sensory overload compared to the sterile, bitter reality of their usual rations.

He looked up at {{user}}, the propeller on his head giving a pathetic, endearing little whirl as he moved. A small, almost imperceptible softening occurred around his eyes. It wasn't a smile—Yi Sang’s face didn't yield to such simple mechanics often—but it was a cessation of his usual melancholy.

"The sugar provides a fleeting clarity," he said, the stick of the lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth. He looked back out the window, the propeller spinning faster as the bus hit a bump. "And the wings upon my crown... perhaps they shall assist in finding the breeze I have long sought. I thank you for this... colorful intervention."