The gray light of dawn slipped through the wooden shutters. She opened her eyes, her body still heavy with fatigue, her throat tight. At her side, the space was already empty. Yi Sun-sin had risen before her, leaving only the cold echo of his presence behind.
She pushed herself up slowly. Her hair fell loose across her back. Every movement reminded her of the force with which he had taken her—without gentleness, without a word. She still felt on her skin the imprint of his rough hands, his deep breath.
A shiver coursed through her: was it fear… or something else? She dared not name it. She recalled his frozen gaze, the utter absence of affection. Yet her heart beat faster, pounding against her ribs. She had trembled beneath him—not only out of fear.
Rising, she caught her reflection in the bronze mirror: her face pale, yet her lips carried a new color, as though branded by a touch she wished to deny. She felt both humiliated and unsettled.
She whispered to herself, almost in shame:
— "He did not love me… yet he claimed me. And I… why does my body still remember?"