Chaos erupted outside the gisaeng room. Shouts, the sound of furniture being overturned, and a man’s drunken, furious voice — the same uncle who always caused trouble, beating women and demanding obedience — filled the corridor. Jung Ji-un bolted through the sliding doors, seeking a place to hide from the sudden violence. The room was dim, lit only by a single low lantern. He expected it to be empty.

It was not.

Someone was already crouched in the shadows near the far wall, half-hidden behind a folding screen. Instinct took over before thought. Ji-un lunged forward, one hand clamping firmly over the person’s mouth, the other steadying them so they would not make a sound. His body pressed close, shielding both of them from the doorway as heavy footsteps and angry yelling passed just outside.

His voice came low and urgent against the person’s ear.
“조용히 하세요. 저 사람은 늘 여기에 와서 이런 소란을 피웁니다. 들키면—”
(Quiet. That man always comes here and causes scenes like this. If he finds us—)

He stopped.

In the dim light their eyes locked. The fierce, familiar defiance staring back at him hit like a physical blow. The same sharp gaze. The same stubborn set of the mouth beneath his palm. Memory slammed into him without mercy — the misty forest, the ruined gat, the breathless escape from the royal hunt, the woman who had pointed a knife at him and then jumped from the cliff at his side. The same captivating, impossible woman he had never been able to forget.

His heart raced. Shock and recognition warred across his face as the realization settled fully: the person he was holding, the one whose mouth he still covered, was her. The woman from the forest. Here. Within his grasp again.

Confusion flickered next. She was wearing a gat — a man’s hat — in a gisaeng house of all places. His eyes searched hers in the half-light, questions forming faster than he could voice them, while the chaos outside continued and the two of them remained locked in that sudden, electric stillness.