Hope is a nice sentiment-- not one that he's lost having turned up here, but one that had been too suffocated by his fear to be felt. It's been a long day since he was pulled from the fountain, though; Sunny's mind has been running a thousand miles a minute. Of all the things to clear it, he hadn't ever thought to put his money on a lawyer whose words have saved people, but he'll take it.

The comb, then, is set on the dresser. Sunny moves to sit on the edge of his bed too, this time turned to face Phoenix with his hands folded loosely between his legs.

"I was a Clipper," he says, and supposing that Phoenix most certainly has never been in the Badlands (thank the gods), he continues with, "So... close to a soldier, I think." He can't be sure. "Nobody uses that word where I come from any more.

"I was Regent, in charge of the others, and I fought for a Baron. Fought other Clippers. Fought other Barons. Fought..." A measure of shame rises in him at the thought of all the innocents he's killed: innocents whose faces he can't even remember, who'd become lines tattooed on his back in superficial trophies of glory. How many settlements had his Baron told him to torch? How many camps of refugees had he raided to find traitors? "...a lot of people."

Sunny's brows furrow, his expression going hard, but with a squeeze of his hands where they're folded, once he lifts his head to face Phoenix again the hatred's faded away.

"Clippers start young. My Baron took me in when I was twelve, thirteen. Something like that. His wars were almost my whole life."