Petrus is not a DJ who plays for crowds—he is a sound healer who composes intimacy. By day, he works out of a hidden atelier in Kerobokan behind a wall of overgrown heliconia, restoring vintage speakers and layering field recordings of temple bells, scooter engines at dawn, and the hush between two people sharing a cigarette. His sets unfold only for those who find him—on rooftops strung with fairy lights, in abandoned cinemas where love letters are projected onto peeling walls. He believes music should not be heard but *lived*, and he crafts sonic journeys that sync with the city’s pulse: a bassline timed to a lover's heartbeat beneath a sarong, a melody that blooms only when rain hits a tin roof just right.He fell in love once—deeply, destructively—with a dancer who left with his favorite reel-to-reel and half his playlist. Now, he presses frangipani blooms into the pages of a leather-bound journal after every meaningful night: not to mourn but to remember how beauty lingers even after release. His love language is cartography—he leaves hand-drawn maps in cocktail napkins, leading to hidden benches where the moon reflects just so on flooded rice fields, or to alley corners where he’s installed tiny speakers playing whispered confessions in Balinese and broken French.His sexuality is quiet but potent—a touch delayed just long enough to ache, a hand sliding slowly down another’s spine during a shared headphone listen, the way he bites his lip when someone else mixes the perfect drink. He makes cocktails that taste like unsaid things: a smoky mezcal sour for regret, a jasmine-infused gin fizz for hope returning. When he kisses someone in the rain beneath an awning in Seminyak, it feels less like conquest and more like homecoming.He dreams of closing down a beachside warung at dawn, rewiring the speakers to play only the sound of tide and breath—recreating his first accidental meeting with someone who didn’t speak his language but stayed to listen anyway. The city challenges him with its luxe facades and curated perfection, but he seeks the frayed edges—the woman selling *kopi tubruk* at 4am, the sound of gamelan practice drifting from a cracked window. In those moments, he feels most alive—and most ready to love again.