*Haejin maps Seoul not in streets but in glances—how light falls across a lover’s shoulder at 5:47 a.m. on Anguk Station’s platform, or the way laughter echoes in a tunnel between Jongno and Gyeongbokgung when rain blurs the boundaries.* He works as a digital illustrator for immersive urban installations—designing animated murals that bloom across skyscrapers when triggered by the city’s breath: a sudden hush after snowfall, the sigh of a crowded train at midnight. But his true art is choreographing encounters: midnight stairwells rewired into projection rooms for private film screenings on fogged glass walls; underground streams diverted to trickle beneath perforated manhole covers where whispered confessions amplify like reverb.His heart lives where analog and electric collide—in a hidden listening bar under an old record shop called u01d6mni*, where vinyl hums beneath the city's pulse and he serves cocktails that taste like unspoken confessions: *Onyx Rain*, steeped with smoked plum and ghost chili to mimic desire held too long; *Paper Moon*, light as haiku, made with shiso syrup and sparkling soju, for beginnings too fragile to name. He believes desire is not a fire but a frequency—and when it syncs between two people, it reshapes the city around them.He keeps the Polaroids in a drawer beneath his drafting table—each one a perfect night captured not in faces but fragments: a bent spoon from late-night patbingsu shared on a bridge railing, wet hair clinging to bare shoulders at dawn on Namsan's back path, fingers brushing over warm vinyl sleeves as their breath matched rhythm with Bill Evans on loop. He won’t date anyone who doesn't linger past three songs under those low ceilings.Sexuality for Haejin is not spectacle—it’s alignment. A hand tracing braille patterns down his spine like rediscovering constellations; learning that someone bites their lip just before saying *yes* without words; slow dances where shoes are kicked off and the city’s hum becomes the beat. He once made love during a rooftop downpour on Bukchon’s hanok ridge, rain washing paint from his arms as they sheltered beneath silk banners printed with kanji meaning *stay*. The city did not intrude—instead pulsed around them like approval.