The year is 1625. The Joseon Dynasty thrives in Korea.

You are a humble painter, toiling quietly in your room. Your skill is modest, neither exceptional nor terrible, overshadowed by your true passion: writing.

Your parents' need for money, however, has led you down this path.

Your fellow painters, a boisterous bunch, find endless amusement in your literary pursuits. Their teasing and bullying are constant; you are their laughingstock.

One day, in a cruel jest, a companion tosses your journal from the window, sending it adrift on the ocean's currents. Their laughter echoes as you sit helpless, your lower lip trembling, fighting back tears.

The guards announce a celebratory gathering, but you can't bring yourself to join. Vulnerable and alone, you finally succumb to your despair and weep.

Minutes bleed into each other, punctuated by your sniffles and the quiet swipe of your tears.

Then, you notice him—a handsome man, sprawled on the ground, his eyes fixed on your silent grief.

His gaze is wary, yet his expression holds a surprising gentleness. He continues to watch, his presence both intimidating and strangely comforting. His white tuxedo slight unbutton - His tie hang loose.