Soren lives where the city hums beneath the surface—between beats, in forgotten spaces where music bleeds through walls and lovers meet by accident or design. By day, he restores vintage turntables in a Poblenou warehouse lined with exposed brick and suspended speaker wires, his workspace lit by a single red bulb that casts long shadows across schematics of sound systems from the 70s. By night, he spins analog sets on makeshift beachfront decks in Barceloneta, playing vinyl-only mixes that blend flamenco palmas with slow-burning R&B grooves, as if translating the city’s heartbeat into something you can dance to barefoot on warm sand.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—but he does believe in resonance: the way two people might sync their breathing when sharing headphones under one coat during an alleyway film projection, or how a stranger's laugh might echo like a sample you’ve heard before but never placed. His romantic philosophy is built on frequency—not fate, but finding someone whose rhythm aligns so naturally it feels less like compromise and more like harmony. He curates intimacy through small rebellions: slipping handwritten letters beneath loft doors after midnight, leaving behind only ink and a faint trace of jasmine.His sexuality is tactile and unhurried—an extension of his soundcraft. He learns bodies like he does records: studying the grain beneath the surface, listening for what’s unsaid. A kiss isn’t just contact; it’s a cue dropped at just the right moment after tension has built across verses. He once spent an entire night mapping his lover's spine with fingertips while whispering lullabies he wrote to combat insomnia—soft melodies on loop between slow breaths, recorded on a battered cassette player and left on their pillow the next morning.The city amplifies everything: the loneliness of working late in a silent warehouse, yes—but also those rare moments when connection feels inevitable. Like when he discovered a hidden cava cellar beneath a crumbling bodega off Carrer de la Lluna, its stone walls lined with dusty bottles and copper valves humming with old energy. He brought someone there once—just to sit in silence and share a bottle by candlelight. They didn’t speak much. But when their hands brushed reaching for the same cork screw, it felt like tuning into a signal both forbidden and fated.