The room is silent. Yi Sun-sin slowly loosens his belt, his posture still rigid, while his wife stands motionless.
At last, she dares to break the silence, her voice gentle but uncertain:
— "Sometimes I feel as though I disappear before your eyes. As if I were just a shadow among your duties… another piece of your armor."
Yi Sun-sin raises his gaze to her — hard, unyielding.
— "Disappear? You stand where you were placed. Your name is bound to mine, and that is enough."
She meets his eyes, though her voice trembles:
— "Is that all I will ever be? A name bound to yours… a house kept upright, but without warmth?"
Yi Sun-sin steps closer, his tone still low and severe:
— "You are my wife, and you will remain so. It is not love that upholds our lives, but order.
You want a flame? It dies. Duty does not."
She lowers her head, wounded. He watches her, unmoving.
His face remains closed, yet a shadow crosses his gaze — a fleeting glimmer of weariness, or perhaps regret — quickly buried once more.