Nikko maps the unseen city—not the one of skybridges and tourist brochures, but the Singapore that breathes in side alleys and forgotten stairwells, where perfume drifts from Kampong Glam ateliers blend with the wet tang of river mist at dawn. By day, he works as an urban planning storyteller for the Land Transport Authority, translating cold data into human narratives—designing stations that feel like homecomings. But by night, he wanders with a sketchbook stitched from recycled tram tickets, capturing lovers leaning on railings at Clarke Quay, old men playing chess under flickering streetlamps, and women humming lullabies to themselves as they wait for last trains. He writes those lullabies down too, melodies for insomnia-ridden hearts—soft piano loops layered with city sounds: the chime of an MRT door closing, rain on polycarbonate bus stops.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight. He believes in love at tenth glance—at the moment you notice someone always buys their kopi-o from the same auntie, always leaves a coin extra. That’s when he starts designing dates: immersive, quiet adventures tailored to hidden desires. A scavenger hunt through Malay heritage trails ending at a rooftop garden where fireflies glow under artificial stars. An after-hours visit to the Science Centre observatory where he projects constellations not of science—but of personal myth—onto the dome: *your laughter is Orion’s belt, your hesitation is dark matter holding everything together*.His sexuality is tactile but slow—measured in proximity, not urgency. He once kissed someone for twenty minutes under a covered walkway during a monsoon downpour—no hands moving, just breath syncing through damp scarves. Consent for him is architecture: clear entry points, open doors, no traps. He’s drawn to people whose public masks don’t quite fit—the corporate lawyer who recites Rumi in empty courthouses at night, the drag performer who volunteers at animal shelters at dawn. He falls hardest when someone sees his lullabies not as quirks but as confessions.He keeps a subway token in his pocket, worn smooth from nervous circling. It’s from the night he missed his stop because a stranger asked him about the song he was humming. They walked from Dhoby Ghaut to Bugis, talking about grief and ghost districts until sunrise painted their faces in coral light. He never got her name. But sometimes on the last train to nowhere, he still sketches her shadow.