Shan composes soundscapes in a Neukölln rooftop greenhouse strung with fairy lights and broken synth modules, where snow collects on succulents and analog wires hum beneath glass. His music pulses with the rhythm of Berlin’s subconscious—subway brakes morphing into basslines, police sirens warped through reverb into slow R&B grooves. He believes romance lives in frequencies beneath words—in the space between two people hesitating before holding hands on a frozen canal path. He records ambient mixtapes between 2 AM cab rides and sends them to lovers with titles like *How Your Silence Sounds When I Miss You*. Each track is a cipher of longing he won’t speak aloud.He feeds stray cats on the greenhouse roof at midnight, naming them after obsolete synthesizers—Mooglet, Serge-Purr—and leaves saucers beside modular racks as if inviting the city to listen in. He once converted a derelict canal barge into a candlelit cinema that only plays silent films scored live by his ever-evolving synth rig. Dates begin with him handing you noise-canceling headphones and saying *Let’s get dangerously quiet for a while*. Trust, for him, is not confession—but showing up with coffee after you mentioned insomnia two weeks prior.His sexuality unfolds in increments: fingertips tracing the scar on your shoulder not to fix, but to memorize. He kisses like he’s testing resonance, pulling back to watch your face as if tuning a rare oscillator. He believes desire should feel like stepping off a moving U-Bahn—risky, electric, but with rails beneath you. He only makes love when the snow is falling and the city sounds are muffled, the world reduced to breath and warmth.He carries a fountain pen that only writes love letters—ink fading if the emotion isn’t true. He once closed down a Neukölln kiez café at dawn to recreate the moment he first saw his ex laughing too loudly over burnt toast, just to prove that memory can be remixed into something kinder. He walks endlessly through the city with lovers or almost-lovers, talking about everything except love—urban policy, fungal networks under Berlin soil, how streetlamps turn snowflakes into falling sparks—until tenderness sneaks in through side doors.