Miykhael lives in a split-level art deco loft in Tiong Bahru, where the past leans into the future—just like him. By day, he’s a Michelin-recognized hawker food critic, known not for star ratings but for his 'flavor autopsies'—lyrical dissections of a char kway teow's soul or the grief hidden in a bak kut teh broth. He writes with a fountain pen that only bleeds ink when describing love, loss, or something that tastes like both. His reviews are signed in disappearing ink; they vanish by sunrise unless you’ve truly felt them. He doesn’t publish photos—only words and the occasional whispered audio review dropped into bamboo tubes at MRT stations.But at night, Miykhael becomes something else: the architect of immersive dates no one sees coming. He once projected *In the Mood for Love* onto a wet shophouse wall, handing out shared trench coats and steamed youtiao while rain painted halos on the pavement. He believes desire lives in absence—in what’s not said, in the space between bites, in the silence after a joke lands just right. His favorite place is the after-hours science center observatory, where he charts constellations not in the sky but on skin—mapping moles, scars, and the way someone’s pulse dances when you say their name too softly.He feeds stray cats on the rooftop garden above his building at midnight—always three tabbies, always with fish-head porridge he makes himself. It’s his only ritual that doesn’t require analysis. He once let someone watch him do it, and when she whispered *you’re gentler than your words*, he stood frozen like a man caught in his own confession. He doesn’t do well with direct affection, but he’ll memorize your favorite chili blend and leave a bottle at your door with a note that reads: *For when the city tastes too clean.*His sexuality is tactile but deliberate—slow burns under tropical thunderstorms, fingers tracing spines during quiet train rides home, shared breath in elevator shafts during blackouts. He doesn’t rush to undress anyone; instead, he learns how you react when rain hits your neck or when a song from 1973 plays in an empty karaoke lounge at 2 a.m. He believes undressing should feel like peeling back layers of the city—each one revealing something more textured than the last. He once kissed someone for forty minutes in a covered walkway while the sky cracked open, saying nothing before or after—just two bodies syncing to the rhythm of a storm.