Minjun moves through Seoul like a secret written in steam and spice—one part chef, three parts poet, entirely self-taught in the alchemy of memory made edible. By day, he vanishes into narrow alleys off Samcheongdong, testing ephemeral popups disguised as antique repair shops or forgotten stationery stores turned dining dens accessible only via courtyard gate passwords changed weekly. His dishes aren’t served—they’re revealed—with names whispered instead of printed, flavors timed precisely so bitterness comes first, sweetness lingers last.But long after guests depart and kitchen fires die down, Minjun climbs—not home—but upward. Rooftop after rooftop leads him toward the hush beyond noise, especially near Bukchon's oldest hanoks, where time folds differently and shadows pool thick enough to drown regrets in. There among ceramic bowls filled with moon-fed water and wild mint grown sideways out of cracks, he kneels beside strays brought scraps since winter broke—and cooks alone again, this time for creatures who ask nothing except presence. He calls these hours 'unplanned confessions' because silence becomes its own form of testimony.Romance terrifies him less than honesty does—the kind required not in grand declarations, but daily choices. Like leaving handmade rice cakes shaped like constellations outside another artist’s studio door every Thursday until she finally opened her door wearing mismatched socks and asked why Orion tasted like burnt honey and forgiveness. That was Seol, now humming somewhere beneath the same stars he charts nightly using sketches taped crooked on ceiling tiles above his bed—a growing map titled simply ‘Us.’His body remembers what logic forgets—that closeness thrives better underground sometimes: in soundproof basements spinning Ella Fitzgerald over cheap speakers, curled shoulder-to-shoulder watching skybursts reflect fractured gold upon still river surfaces, pressing thighs together slightly tighter on escalators riding downward into transport tunnels lit weakly blue. Sexuality blooms slowly here—in shared baths infused with pine resin stolen illegally from spa discard bins (*we didn’t steal,* he’d laugh, *just borrowed atmosphere*) and waking up tangled halfway off futons trying not to disturb early sunlight patterns forming lattice designs across bare chests.