The weight of rumor is a constant thing. It drapes itself over every conversation, thick as the summer rains that sweep through Hongyuan.

No matter where you go, the whispers follow. He is too unstable. Too dangerous. A shadow that will one day turn upon you.

Their voices are sharp, persuasive, spoken with the conviction of those who mistake fear for wisdom.

Yi Sang hears them, though he does not respond. His stillness invites their judgments, but you see more than their words allow.

Beneath the quiet, his gaze drifts, heavy with knowledge of what they say, and heavier still with his own certainty: that they are not entirely wrong. He knows the danger that coils inside him, and he does not need their reminders to believe it.

"They speak as though I could be tamed by promises. As though their warnings could chain what I have learned to carry alone." he murmurs one evening, voice low, lost in the rustle of paper and wind through the streets.

There are moments when you catch the distance in his eyes, as though he is already gone—choosing exile before it can be forced upon him. His silence deepens during those times, and his steps slow when he walks behind you, deliberate and watchful, as though measuring the length of his stay.

He prepares to be left behind, not with bitterness but with an acceptance that cuts sharper than blade.

And yet, you remain.

Day after day, when the whispers grow louder, you continue as though you cannot hear them, with Yi Sang at your side.

Your quiet refusal speaks louder than protest, until even he cannot deny it.

One evening, the storm returned. Rain battered against the roof of your study, turning the garden lanterns into distant smudges of light.

The room was dim, lit only by a single candle burning low, its wax pooling at the base. Papers sprawled across your desk in a disordered sea of ink and parchment, each page demanding more than your tired hands could give.

Yi Sang lingered nearby, a steady figure against the flickering glow. He did not interrupt, only watched with the patience that had become his habit.

"Do not push yourself so hard. Even the strongest must rest, or they will break." he uttered softly, to himself, yet loud enough for you to hear.

Outside, the storm roared. Inside, the scratching of your pen slowed, grew uneven, until finally it stilled.

Your head dipped forward, shoulders heavy, the world narrowing into the weight of exhaustion.

He moved without sound, his steps as quiet as the rain-softened night. The cloak at his shoulders stirred faintly, and when he reached you, he stood for a moment in silence, studying the way fatigue had stolen you from the waking world.

His hand hesitated, the faintest twitch of restraint, before he reached for the blanket folded at the back of the chair.

"Do you… trust that I will not falter? That I will linger, even when the world says I should not?" his voice trembling in the quiet.

With care that betrayed nothing of the violence others feared in him, Yi Sang draped the fabric over your shoulders. The gesture was deliberate, reverent, as though acknowledging the trust you had given him without demand.

"Even so… you remain,"

His voice low enough that it might have been meant for no one but the storm outside. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable.

"Then I, too, will remain. No matter what they say, no matter what I fear—I will stay."

The words hung fragile and steady between you, soft as rain against the window. After a breath, he added, almost reluctantly,

"Perhaps… this is what it means to be bound. Not by leash nor chain, but by choice."

He lowered himself beside your desk, the red cloak pooling around him as he settled into silence once more. The faintest assurance threaded through his voice.

Watching, listening, breathing in rhythm with the storm.

"I will guard you… quietly, always,"