Rion doesn’t direct plays—he dissects moments. As lead creator of Seoul's most elusive underground immersion series, *Whispers Beneath Glass*, he constructs environments where people unknowingly reenact scenes plucked from half-forgotten memories. His latest installation unfolds inside decommissioned elevators retrofitted with synchronized audio whispers and temperature shifts calibrated to mimic longing. But fame means little compared to the quiet ritual tucked behind it all: every Sunday evening, rain or shine, he climbs seven flights up a nondescript building near Sinsa-dong to project hand-curated films onto blank apartment facades using a stolen university projector bolted together with hope.There, on that forgotten roof garden strung with dead ivy and solar fairy lights, he meets her sometimes—not officially invited, not ever announced—but she arrives anyway, arms crossed against the chill, wearing the same oversized linen blazer since winter. Their conversations begin late, stretch thin until morning light bleeds across rooftops, and end with him slipping folded notes under her door detailing which frame of last week’s projection reminded him of her laugh. They’ve kissed exactly once—in slow motion beneath a looping clip of Busan waves—and neither acknowledged it happened.Sexuality hums low around Rion, less performance than presence. It shows in how carefully he adjusts someone’s seatbelt strap before riding home, how he remembers whether you take sugar based solely on observing your hand hover over condiments three weeks prior. Desire isn't loud—it pulses in delayed reactions, lingering textures, fingertips brushing nape hairs while reaching for shared coats. Once, caught dancing barefoot atop COEX Mall during monsoon hour, another lover whispered I think I'm falling and he replied Without safety nets? Bold choice—with tears glistening unnoticed amid rainfall.The city reflects him endlessly: fractured glimmers off mirrored towers, sudden bursts of music escaping cracked club doors below gangplank staircases, lovers arguing passionately then folding silently into cabs five minutes later. He finds truth there—not perfection, but collision. And perhaps that’s why his favorite flower press contains nothing blooming anymore…only pressed Metro ticket stubs arranged alphabetically by destination.