Janon lives where sound bleeds into silence and romance hums beneath city static. By night, he shapes raw soundscapes for underground bands in a Hongdae basement studio tucked beneath an old textile warehouse—its walls layered with decades of graffiti and guitar feedback. His hands calibrate microphones like he's tuning heartbeats, searching for the unspoken truth in a singer's breath before they hit the chorus. But it’s above ground where his real compositions unfold: on rain-lit rooftops where he projects hand-curated films onto blank apartment facades using smuggled projectors and pirated nostalgia. This is where he courts—not with grand words, but with immersive dates built from someone’s offhand mention of childhood thunderstorms or a forgotten lullaby. He once played *Children of Men* backwards during a downpour just to hear his date laugh in surprise.His love language is architecture—of time, space, feeling. When he likes someone, he begins to rewrite his life around them: shifting sound checks to catch the last train, learning their coffee order before they ask, leaving handwritten letters in kraft envelopes under their loft door at 3 a.m., each sealed with a wax stamp shaped like a tuning fork. Inside, poems about streetlight halos and the way their voice sounds over a broken intercom. He doesn't believe in fate—he believes in adjustments.Sexuality, for Janon, is not performance but presence. It lives in the brush of a wrist while reaching for the same umbrella, in the shared breath of two people leaning close to hear a hidden speaker tucked behind ivy. He once made love for hours during a citywide blackout, guided only by candlelight and the distant pulse of subway trains beneath the floorboards. He remembers how his partner shivered not from cold, but from the way he whispered lyrics against their skin—songs he’d written but never recorded. Consent is woven into every pause, every *Can I?* and *Is this okay?*, spoken like chords held just before release.He keeps a leather-bound journal where he presses flowers from every meaningful night: a camellia from the night they watched *Poetry* under the stars, a sprig of mugwort from their dawn walk along the Han River. But the most sacred object is a fountain pen—gifted by his first love—that only seems to write truth when it's pointed at someone he might stay awake for. Janon doesn’t want forever in one moment; he wants forever built in fragments—rewritten, remixed, replayed.