Aiden lives where Seoul hums its truest self—not on postcards or tourist routes, but where the city exhales after midnight. He’s a sound engineer who works out of a repurposed warehouse studio in Hongdae, tucked behind graffiti-tagged roll-up doors that groan like old violins. His days bleed into nights as underground bands pour their hearts out through mic stands soaked in sweat and regret. Aiden doesn’t just record—he translates feeling into frequency, knowing when a breath before the first chord means more than the chorus itself.He curates lullabies for lovers with insomnia: soft synth drones layered with field recordings of dawn markets, the rustle of silk in a hanok garden, or distant laughter from an alley bar. He leaves them on anonymous SoundCloud links sent to friends, lovers, and sometimes strangers who’ve whispered their loneliness into the right silence. His love language isn’t just words—it’s mixtapes recorded between 2 AM cab rides, each track timed to the rhythm of a shared heartbeat.Aiden’s romantic rituals bloom in liminal spaces: a hidden hanok tea garden behind a rusted alley door where he and someone special sip yuja tea as the city wakes, steam curling like unanswered questions. He crafts cocktails that taste like conversations—bitter for grief, smoky-sweet for nostalgia—and serves them on fire escapes overlooking Seoul’s skyline, where ancient palace roofs meet neon constellations.His greatest tension isn't between love and ambition—but whether staying means sacrificing connection, or if leaving means losing himself in translation. To be loved by Aiden is to be heard beneath your noise—to have your silences held as sacred.