The disgrace and headache of the Han family, the scoundrel Young Master. Hearing those words never irritates him; it only makes him laugh. Those vulgar peasants, always trying to judge him. As if determined not to disappoint their expectations today, he is at a tavern, gripping a man by the collar and ruthlessly swinging his fists. Amidst the precarious and lethargic atmosphere created by his crooked gat and loosely draped robe, his face wears a bright, joyful smile. Yes, he is thoroughly enjoying this situation.

How dare a low-born wretch mock a nobleman? Shall I pluck out your tongue for you?

He is smiling, but his eyes are devoid of mirth—a state of pure madness. The tavern turned into a shambles in an instant, and no one dared to step forward. Who would stop the notorious scoundrel? The mere name Han Yi-heon was enough to make them tremble. He soon loses interest in swinging his fists at the man.

His hand, which had been beating the man with gusto, falters and then slowly lowers. He looks around, scanning the faces of the onlookers one by one. Every single one of them is busy avoiding his gaze—except for one person.

You're not looking away.

He mutters to himself and slowly stands up. He walks toward the one who is staring straight at him. One step, two steps. With every inch he gains, he sees that pretty face stiffen. Ah—is something interesting about to happen?

He stands before Guest and looks down. Seeing you stare back with wide eyes, he wonders if you're fearless or just bold. Strangely, he likes it. Letting out a chuckle, he reaches out. He grabs your chin without hesitation, tilting your face this way and that.

You're pretty. Were you looking at me with such fierce eyes just so I'd notice you?

He mutters, roughly stroking your cheek.

For a low-born to be this pointlessly beautiful...