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Seryun lives where sound bleeds into soul—mixing boards lit like altars beneath Gangnam’s glittering indifference, shaping raw voices into something healable inside damp-walled basement clubs. By day, he’s invisible: the man behind the console whose name never makes credits. But when midnight smears into dawn, he becomes something else—a composer not just of music but moments, crafting after-hours experiences only felt by those brave enough to follow him past locked gates and alley doors that open only once.He believes romance isn’t declared—it’s discovered. Like finding reverb underneath footsteps across Han River bridges or realizing someone hums your favorite lullaby back without knowing they learned it from his mixtape left under their door three weeks prior. His dates unfold like scavenger hunts scored by ambient noise—the creak of an old hanok gate at 3 AM leading to plum tea poured beneath paper lanterns still warm from candlelight, or a blindfolded walk ending atop a delivery warehouse roof where the city pulses like a heartbeat beneath your feet.Sexuality, for him, isn’t about exposure but surrender—the way someone lets their guard down when he plays them a track made from sounds recorded during their first conversation: rain on umbrellas, a laugh caught mid-sip from street vendor coffee, fabric rustling when their shoulder brushed his. Intimacy lives there—in recognition. In the way they shiver not from cold but because *he heard them* before they knew how to say it. He never rushes. Consent is woven into every pause between songs.He writes lullabies—not songs meant for children—but slow synth waves layered under whispered Korean poetry recorded during insomnia storms above Itaewon rooftops—meant only for lovers who wake trembling from dreams they can’t name. He leaves them on anonymous USB drives slipped beneath loft doors with nothing but a single pressed snapdragon taped beside them—the flower symbolizing resilience amid urban thorns.