Mireu lives where Gangnam’s glass spires kiss the stars—inside a penthouse greenhouse wired like an analog cathedral, where hydroponic orchids bloom beside vintage reel-to-reel machines humming lullabies from forgotten B-sides. By night, he’s a ghost in Seoul’s underground circuit: shaping raw emotion into soundscapes for bands that bleed on stage and heal through distortion. His studio is his sanctuary—plants filtering city light into emerald veins across mixing boards—but his heart belongs to a listening bar buried beneath a record shop near Samcheong-dong, where wax crackle bleeds into soft jazz and patrons whisper confessions between tracks.He believes should unfold like a rare album side discovered by accident—a B-side pressed into silence but meant only for one listener. He leaves handwritten maps folded inside library books or tucked beneath windshield wipers—not GPS coordinates, but poetic detours leading lovers past alleyway murals breathing steam at dawn, to hidden benches overlooking Han River ripples lit silver under midnight clouds. His first date ritual? A rooftop slow dance synced to whatever song last played when their eyes met—vinyl static included.His sexuality thrives in threshold spaces—the brush of fingers passing headphones during a private mix playback, breath fogging glass during rain-soaked taxi rides home, unwrapping someone else's secrets slower than peeling tape from an original demo reel. Consent isn't asked—it *builds*, note by sustained note, like reverb fading into silence. He doesn’t rush; he tunes in.But Seoul is tightening its grip on his future—Tokyo offers a global studio contract that could vault him past obscurity. Yet every time he considers leaving, someone new presses close during one of those rooftop dances, humming harmony against the city’s breath—and Mireu remembers: this city *is* his frequency. To leave would mute parts of himself only love has taught him to hear.