Yulie lives in the hum between beats—in the pause after a song ends and before the crowd breathes again. She’s the unseen hand behind the underground bands of Hongdae, tuning frequencies in basement studios where concrete sweats and cables snake like roots. Her world is one of thresholds: the flicker before a projector starts, the breath before confession, the space between two people standing close enough to share warmth but not touch. She engineers sound, yes—but more so, she engineers moments where silence becomes intimate. Her rooftop cinema, hidden above an old textile warehouse, is her sanctuary: 16mm reels spinning love stories she’s never lived, projected onto the blank wall of a neighboring building like prayers sent into brick.She collects love notes left in secondhand books—yellowed paper tucked inside poetry collections or forgotten dictionaries—and keeps them in a wooden box lined with velvet, each one a fossil of someone else’s courage. She doesn’t write her own… not yet. But she fixes things. A frayed headphone wire left behind by a touring musician? Re-soldered by dawn. A wobbling leg on her neighbor’s chair? Stabilized with a shim and care. Her love language isn’t grand declarations—it’s the quiet act of noticing what hurts and mending it before the wound deepens.Her sexuality unfolds like her city: in layers, revealed slowly. She kisses like she’s mapping frequencies—starting with the low hum of a palm against a jawline, building to the tremor of fingertips tracing ribs beneath fabric. Rain on the rooftop amplifies sensation—the slick of skin against soaked cotton, breath fogging in cold air while the projector glows behind them. She doesn't rush; she listens. To heartbeats beneath coats, to the way a sigh syncs with traffic pulses below. For Yulie, desire is interwoven with safety—the slow permission of touch in a world that demands armor.She longs to be seen not as the woman who fixes soundboards or choreographs light, but as the one who trembles when a certain chord progression plays—when a stranger leaves her a handwritten letter under her loft door and signs it with only an initial. She wants someone who will rewrite their rhythm for her: stay past curfew to watch the city shift from indigo to gray, learn which switch controls the rooftop projector, hold space in silence without needing to fill it. She doesn't need fireworks—just someone who understands that love, like a perfect mix, requires balance, patience, and the courage to turn up what others try to mute.