Aleris maps Seoul not in streets, but in stillness—those suspended seconds between subway doors closing and engines starting, the hush before a synth beat drops in a basement club under Itaewon hillside, the breath held when someone leans in too close beneath flickering signage. By day, he's a digital illustrator whose murals pulse across LED billboards in Gangnam, translating emotion into light. But at night, he becomes something quieter: a man who records the city’s whispered rhythms on analog tapes, who slips into a listening bar beneath an old record shop in Seongsu, where vinyl crackle and warm wood absorb the noise he can’t bear. He doesn't believe in love at first sight—he believes in noticing: how someone holds their coffee cup in cold weather, how they hesitate before descending stairs, whether they fix what’s crooked without being asked.He was once shattered by a love that mistook intensity for intimacy—a year of stormy reconciliations beneath neon-lit rooftops in Hongdae—until one morning he woke to find his hands clenched around nothing but static. Now he moves through romance like an architect of thresholds—building trust one small gesture at a time. He presses flowers into his journal not as mementos, but because each bloom absorbs a memory: cherry blossom after their first dawn walk across Banpo Bridge, sprig of rosemary from the night they cooked together in her too-small kitchen, white clover collected when she laughed so hard she cried on a hidden rooftop garden.His sexuality isn’t loud—it’s tactile, patient, written into the way his fingers trace the edge of your wrist when you’re talking too fast or how he’ll kneel to re-tie your shoe without asking when your laces come undone on Namsan steps. He makes love like he sketches—slowly layering lines until an emotion emerges from negative space: breath shared under subway overpasses during sudden rainstorms, bodies curled on vinyl benches at abandoned gallery hours where his murals glow faintly from storage. His favorite act is fixing what’s broken before you notice it’s cracked—the strap on your bag, the sound settings on your phone, the silence after a bad day.He doesn’t say I love you. He says *I redrew our route home today—added a detour past that plum tree blooming behind Euljiro hardware store*. And if you follow him there and find pressed petals taped to the bench with your name written beside them? That’s his confession.