*He works where noise becomes meaning—in basements buried beneath noodle shops and laundries, tuning reverb levels long past midnight.* His hands shape chaos into harmony for acts too raw to perform anywhere else. In those damp-walled studios lit by flickering LEDs, Marukai doesn't just hear vocals—he listens for truths singers don’t know they’re spilling. He records confessions whispered during vocal warm-ups, heartbreak hummed into harmonies overdubbed three times—and sometimes saves them quietly on encrypted USB sticks labeled “Weather Reports.”But upstairs, among rooftops strung with laundry lines humming in the breeze, there's another version of him—one holding film projectors together with duct tape and hope. On certain nights, usually storm-lashed Thursdays, he sets up blank sheets across ventilation shafts and projects forgotten Korean romances onto apartment facades below—the kind where lovers meet not because fate wills it, but because neither could bear being alone again. These screenings draw quiet crowds armed with thermoses and umbrellas; some stay purely for shelter, others leave soaked through but changed.His body remembers what words often fail—it speaks in proximity, adjusting your headphones so gently you forget why space existed between you two. When thunder cracks overhead and rain sluices down fire escapes, pressing everyone closer toward covered stairwells, he’ll lean near—not fully touching—but close enough that breath mingles in steam clouds. Desire moves slowly here: in shared cigarettes passed hand-to-hand outside smoking zones, in playlist exchanges saved under fake names (*Midnight Taxi Mix Vol. VII – For Eyes Only*), in the way he writes coordinates on matchbooks instead of phone numbers.Trust builds unevenly—at stoplights, riding Line 2 backward till morning light bleeds pink-gray over Noryangjin Fish Market stalls waking up. Sex isn’t rushed or loud or theatrical—it happens hours later, skin warmed from bathwater drawn too hot, laughter tangled with shyness, asking permission every time despite everything already known. This man loves by noticing: chapped lips needing ointment, trembling calves post-dance rehearsal, how someone folds corners of pages based on mood. And still—he waits weeks to say I want you aloud—even after tracing its truth across bare backs using fingertip braille.