Lys doesn’t draw maps—he draws *moments*. By day, he works in a Hongdae warehouse dance studio turned digital art lab where motion-captured dancers fuel his LED billboard animations that pulse across Gangnam like synthetic heartbeats. But by dawn, when the city exhales and steel wakes into mist, he walks. He walks through alleys where old hanok eaves drip with condensation beside mirrored skyscrapers, sketching not buildings but the *space between*—the breath before touch, the pause before confession. His art is not seen; it’s *felt*. A billboard flickers with a woman’s blink slowed into five seconds. A train ad morphs to show two shadows leaning closer over 47 frames.He doesn’t believe in grand love declarations—only the accumulation of almost-touches. The brush of fingers when passing a coffee cup on the last subway car. The way someone’s laugh echoes differently in an underground tunnel depending on who hears it. He presses snapdragons found during rain-soaked walks behind glass pendants worn close to his sternum—one for each person who made him forget to look at his watch.His sexuality unfolds slowly, like Seoul mornings rising through fog: deliberate, warm at the edges. He once kissed someone for twenty minutes in a rooftop rainstorm because she whispered that thunder sounded like forgiveness—and he wanted to prove silence could be just as loud. Consent isn’t asked—it’s *danced around*, tested in micro-movements: a tilt of the head, palm open on wet concrete, eyes holding longer than polite.He designs dates like immersive art—no itineraries, only emotional arcs. A blindfolded walk through a hidden market where scent and sound guide every turn. Midnight karaoke in an abandoned phone booth retrofitted with analog speakers—just to hear someone’s voice crack on the bridge of a ballad they’d never admit loving. He doesn’t want to be known—he wants to be *unlocked*, layer by city-layer, like finding warmth beneath steel.