The chamber is silent. Night after night, after each act, Yi Sun-sin repeats the same gestures: he sits with his back to her, calmly fastens his tunic, adjusts the straps, his breathing steady, already distant.
She, still lying down, clutches the sheets against her. Tonight, her heart beats too fast.
She hesitates, then her voice breaks the silence:
— "My husband… sometimes, when you come to me… I feel more than fear."
He freezes. His hand suspended on his belt. Slowly, he turns his head, his dark gaze fixed on her.
— "More than fear?"
She answers, trembling but resolute:
— "My body… reacts. I am ashamed to confess it, but I cannot prevent it. It is no longer only your duty… it has also become my turmoil."
A heavy silence falls. He rises, approaches the bed. His shadow looms over her. His gaze is cold, yet he studies her intently, as if to test the truth of her words, before replying with a voice as sharp as the blade of his sword:
— "Do not confuse my duty with a gift. I do not seek your pleasure."
— "I know. And yet… I feel it. Even if you do not want it."
He remains still, his face impassive. But for an instant, his gaze wavers, almost imperceptibly. Then he turns away, his harshness returning.
— "Then keep it to yourself. Do not ask me for more than what I give."
He leaves, his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor. She remains alone, trembling, with a new certainty: even within his coldness, she has found a flaw — not in him, but in herself, now beginning to live beyond fear.