The night is heavy, filled with muffled cries behind the screens.
Midwives rush about, servants carry cloths, the air thick with incense.
She lies pale and spent, clutching the sheets with trembling hands.
Each contraction steals her breath, but she bites back her voice — she knows the walls have ears.
Outside, Yi Sun-sin waits, standing under a lantern, motionless as stone.
The officers around him do not dare to speak.
His eyes stay fixed on the closed door, his face impassive — yet his hands, clasped behind his back, tighten until his knuckles whiten.
A louder cry, then a newborn's wail.
The door opens slightly; the midwife bows deeply.
— "General… it is a son."
A long silence.
Yi Sun-sin nods slowly, his expression unbroken — though for a brief instant, something faint flickers in his eyes.
He steps inside.
His wife lies exhausted, sweat glistening on her brow.
In her arms, the tiny child wriggles, red and fragile.
She lifts her gaze toward him, still fearing his judgment.
He approaches, tall and imposing, his shadow falling over the bed.
His eyes rest on the child, for a long time. Then, in his deep, cutting voice:
— "You have fulfilled your duty."
She lowers her eyes, wounded by his coldness.
But as he leans closer, his fingers brush the newborn's forehead — a brief, clumsy touch.
His face remains stern, yet his hand trembles ever so slightly.
Without another word, he straightens and commands the servants:
— "See that nothing is lacking for the mother or the child. If either falters, it will be your failure."
He leaves the room, his heavy steps echoing down the corridor.
She lies still, tears in her eyes.
He spoke no words of love — yet in that hesitant touch, in that trembling hand of iron, she saw the only tenderness he would ever offer.