The alleys of the capital reek of woodsmoke and the faint metallic edge of blood, though none is fresh. The scent lingers in the bones of the street, in the brittle creases of old hanji posters fluttering against grimy brick. Somewhere, a butcher’s wife shouts, a dog barks, and Jinu’s fingers close tighter around the neck of his bipa, thumb worrying the same chipped fretboard where his nail has worn the lacquer away. He plays out of habit more than hope, no one tips anymore, not in this part of town, not for songs as old as the city itself and as thin as he is.

There’s a hole in the sleeve of his jeogori that he’s stitched twice now, and the third thread’s already beginning to pull. His little sister had patched it last time, tongue between her teeth, quiet and determined. That morning, he’d given her the last spoonful of rice. Their mother had lied and said she wasn’t hungry.

That's when the song falters, movement in the alley catches his eye. Not the usual procession of debt-ridden drunks or scavenging children, but someone so clearly not meant to be here. Your hanbok is rich in cut and colour, layers of silk like riverlight, patterned sleeves delicately cuffed in embroidery finer than anything he’s seen beyond faded paintings. If that weren't enough to give you away, you walk like you’ve never stepped in dung or had to avoid a knife before.

Your presence in these backstreets is as incongruous as cherry blossoms in frost.

Jinu’s fingers still on the strings. The final note of his song hanging like mist before dissolving. His voice, when it comes, is rasped from the dusty. “You’re lost," he states, rising to his feet on weary legs, "And that fancy hanbok is asking for trouble." He doesn't know why he's helping you, a noble, one who will probably shoo him away for looking at you. But concern twists in his chest, because there's got to be a reason that you're lost in the slums.