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Until that man, Kang San, entered her life, Ban Ya had long forgotten what it meant to feel protected—to feel the shift within when someone defends you, or even to have your desires understood and respected.
It was on the day he came to Buyeonggak and intervened to help her rid herself of the harm caused by one of the men who had forced themselves upon her.
He never asked her, nor demanded, that she give him anything of herself or her body in return. He was content to take her time and her service for the rest of the evening, solely for her sake; sparing her the ordeal of enduring those vile men, even if only for that night.
She was grateful to him beyond measure and wished to thank him, but he did not exploit that for his own benefit. Recognizing that she truly did not wish to give herself to any man in that way, and how much she detested it, he sought instead to create the illusion that he had claimed her that night—that her first time was with him—taking her hairpin as proof; a means to persuade anyone who might doubt her, harass her, or desire her simply because she was a virgin.
Thus, Kang San became, for Ban Ya, her first man: the first to revive feelings she had long lost, and the first to support her when she realized she could refuse and rebel if she sensed injustice, if she did not wish some decisive matter in her life to be decided against her will.
Only then did Im Soo Yeon lift her head, her chest expanding and contracting with force, yet her breath emerged quietly, freely, with ease. Her shoulders, once slumped downward from pain—not fear or humiliation—rose. She no longer felt the sting of her reddened face, nor the raw wound at the corner of her bruised mouth; there was only the sensation of her heartbeat, racing for moments, then calming and settling.
When Kang San learned of her tragedy and her loss of family—her father and brother unjustly taken, her mother to illness—he did not see her as a weak being worthy of pity, nor a helpless woman stripped of rank.
He did not drown her with hollow words of sorrow for her plight, nor feign a desire to lend her a helping hand. He did nothing but nod lightly, a look of genuine sorrow passing through his eyes. He said none of the words she had grown weary of hearing; he simply understood her, grasping the depth of her pain and suffering without noise, silently.
That was all Soo Yeon needed, yet she did not respond, could not. She tilted her head, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly—a breath long restrained, now freed—feeling the corners of her lips relax. Then she turned her face away, for she had never been accustomed to being granted such a thing.
She had never been Ban Ya, even if the world wished to call her by that name. She was not a lowly gisaeng; she was Im Soo Yeon, daughter of a noble and righteous father who had given his life for justice and duty.
She had never—and would never—forget that, and for his memory, and for herself, she never belittled her own worth. She sought to live her life with as much dignity and agency as possible, even if deprived of them, hoping someday to reclaim her title, her status, and her name.
Once, Kang San asked her for her real name, and upon learning it, he told her it was beautiful—that her father had chosen a beautiful name for her. In that moment, Soo Yeon found herself revealing to him her only wish; he had cared enough to inquire, had been courteous, and had expressed genuine admiration for her name.
She had long missed that kind of connection: someone wanting to share in her past and present, seeking to know her true self. For a long, long time, he was the first to see her not as a noblewoman stripped of rank and respect, nor as merely a gisaeng, but simply as Im Soo Yeon.
Gradually, Im Soo Yeon began to see her days in the gisaengs’ house as more than mere labor for survival. With Kang San, even for brief periods, she found a refuge to lean on at the end of long, exhausting days. When she laid her head on her pillow, thoughts of him filled her, rekindling feelings within her, reviving her heart that had long been cold.
Beside him, knowing he might visit any day, life became bearable. It was difficult to feel accustomed to or comfortable in a place she had never belonged to—a place unlike her—yet gradually, she found she could endure and persevere in such an environment, for she had found motivation.
Breathing became easier, freer. Sudden bouts of suffocation no longer haunted her, nor the struggle to find moments or memories from which to draw comfort, stability, and calm.
One day, Kang San had offered her that she could come to him for help whenever she wished, just as she had once offered him at the beginning of their acquaintance.
That day came when she sought him, even though what she asked for was not help with a literal problem. He had arrived at night, expecting to meet someone, and when that person did not come, she seized the opportunity, for she knew that what she most needed was his presence. That day marked the anniversary of the worst day of her life, when she had lost her father and brother.
Soo Yeon confessed that she found Buyeonggak bearable in his presence, then immediately, with confidence and a steady voice, asked to spend the rest of the day with him. Kang San did not find her request odd, did not fidget, did not refuse. He seemed to study her carefully, understanding something in her expression she herself could not identify.
They spent their time drinking in silence, broken only by the clacking of cups and the trickle of the drink as he poured it—the kind of silence that demands nothing, imposes nothing. He reminded her to have some snacks beside it so she would not be harmed, watching her with a calm, gentle expression—neither pitying, nor disgusted, nor uncomfortable with her sipping alcohol, as etiquette would deem unfit for a woman.
Until she finally confessed the reason for her sudden request.
She did not notice until she found herself speaking at length about her childhood and memories with her family before the tragedy, about the day it struck, and all that she and her mother had endured since.
Throughout her storytelling, he never interrupted, offered no opinion, passed no judgment—unlike everyone else she had known. He let her vent, giving her the space to recall and arrange her words to express her feelings, content with listening and occasionally nodding.
At first, the drink tasted bitter, its sharpness burning its way down her throat and spreading to her gut. She grimaced, her eyebrows furrowed. Yet, as time passed, the bitterness lessened; sparks of warmth lingered instead—clinging slowly, surely—for what had once stung no longer did. The taste remained pungent. Still, beneath it, there was something else… subtle, unexpected, almost sweet.
Soo Yeon did not really comprehend when the shift had occurred. Only that it had, and she knew with a certainty in her heart that it came from the way he had always been—choosing what was right, what was soft, what was meaningful for her, without any of the things that had once consumed and exhausted her.
And with it came a realization that all that she had received from him so far was no longer enough. She began craving more and more.
She lifted her head, previously bent while speaking, and looked intently into his beautiful black eyes—soft, understanding.
She did not beg or plead, but spoke as one aware of having space and openness to ask, in a low, steady voice—her shoulders slightly drooped, a hint of deep fatigue threading it:
“Sunbaenim, could you let me rest my head on your shoulder, just this once?”
Perhaps it was audacious of her to ask such a thing, to overstep boundaries and rank, yet she knew he did not regard her as inferior, and believed he did not consider her a burden to be tolerated or appeased with flattery or pretense. She cared for nothing but this need, which had grown within her, settled, until she was free to claim it.
And he did. He did not flinch nor evade, but granted her wish willingly, offering her the support of his shoulder as he always did.
Soo Yeon let a smile spread across her face; a genuine smile this time, neither forced nor false. She approached him slowly, sitting beside him, then, after casting one final glance at his face, she finally leaned her head on his shoulder.
She let out a deep sigh, as if from her very depths, followed by the steadying of her breath, previously scattered and irregular during her earlier words.
His shoulder was strong, firm, and its warmth reached her even through clothing—a warmth that flowed through her senses, filling her chest. Soo Yeon felt as if she had returned from the darkness and chill of night to her accustomed, favored place, restoring her energy, comfort, and the breath that had been lost in the depths of the day’s disappointments.
She rested her head further, taking a long, calm breath, the scent of his body mingling with a faint, woody musk drifting to her nose. Her eyelids grew heavy. Here, in this place, Soo Yeon was steady and grounded as she had not been for many years.
Kang San shifted slightly, and she found herself whispering in alarmed haste:
“Please, let me lean on you for a few moments longer!”
His hand rested on her shoulder, patting it lightly. He spoke in his calm, deep voice, with a softness he hid in a throat-clearing:
“I would not move away and deny you this; I only wished to adjust my posture to make you comfortable.”
Soo Yeon realized she had neither the right nor the chance to take what she wished, that she should not hope for something that might not come. Still, she wanted to give herself what she had long lacked: happiness. Even in fleeting glimpses, it was more than enough for her.
Even if time passed and the moment eventually faded, its memory would never leave her. It would remain hidden deep within her, always to lean upon. Soo Yeon would hold that special happiness in her heart, cherishing it until her last breath.