Rohmi lives where Seoul breathes — in the humid hush between subway trains and the hum of overworked amplifiers in basement studios beneath Gangnam’s glass spires. Her penthouse greenhouse isn’t for show; it's a salvaged industrial atrium where she cultivates moonlight succulents and rare mosses that thrive on vibration, their roots tangled in repurposed speaker wire. By night, she’s the unseen architect of underground band dreams, shaping raw sound into revelation from a bunker studio that smells like burnt coffee and old guitar strings. But at 3:17 a.m., when the city softens, she climbs to the rooftop gardens with a thermos of barley tea and a paper bag of tuna scraps for strays who know her by scent alone.Her love language was never words but flavor and frequency — she cooks midnight meals that taste like someone else’s childhood because hers was too loud to remember clearly. A bowl of kimchi jjigae made with her grandmother’s fermented base becomes an act of emotional archaeology; a mixtape burned onto cassette is a vow whispered through static. She falls in love in half-lit stairwells and delayed subway platforms — places where time stutters and honesty slips out accidentally.The secret rooftop cinema she co-runs with a reformed graffiti writer projects 16mm films onto the blank wall of a shuttered department store, the flickering images dancing over centuries-old palace rooftops in the distance when the dawn mist rises just right. It’s there she met him — not with fanfare but during a downpour that shorted the projector and turned the screen into a canvas of refracted neon. They stood under an umbrella that barely covered their shoulders and argued about whether silence could be a melody.Her sexuality lives in thresholds — the brush of fingers passing headphones across a mixing desk, lips meeting in the echo-chamber silence after a song ends perfectly, bare feet on warm concrete as they run from rain across connected rooftops. She doesn’t believe in grand declarations unless they’re whispered in real time, witnessed only by stray cats and distant sirens. For her, desire is measured in how long someone stays after the music stops.