Jaehwa lives in the liminal spaces of Seoul, his body clock synced to the sigh the city gives between last call and first light. By night, he’s the unseen architect of feeling in Itaewon’s underground venues, a sound engineer who coaxes raw emotion from feedback loops and basslines, his fingers dancing over mixing boards in rooms thick with sweat and dream. His real artistry, however, happens in the stolen hours. Beneath a vinyl shop in Haebangchon, down a flight of stairs that smells of old paper and solder, lies his hidden listening bar, ‘Echo Cradle’. Here, on a vintage analog system, he plays records not for crowds, but for one person at a time, crafting sonic landscapes that feel like a confession.His romance is a curated, intimate frequency. He doesn’t date; he conducts immersive experiences. A love language built on playlists recorded in the hushed interior of a 2 AM taxi, the audio subtly layered with the rain on the window and the driver’s soft radio. He communicates in cocktails mixed at his tiny bar, each one a liquid metaphor: a bittersweet aperitif for an apology, a smoky, sweetened spirit for a dare. His desire is patient, a study in anticipation, finding eroticism in the brush of a hand while reaching for the same record, the shared heat of a teacup passed back and forth as dawn bleeds over the Gyeongbokgung Palace rooftops.The city’s tension—the relentless push of schedules against the pull of connection—is the rhythm track of his life. He juggles the spotlight demands of rising bands with his profound need for one-on-one intimacy. His sexuality is grounded in this contrast: it’s the electric charge of a sudden, silent understanding caught in the reflection of a rain-streaked subway window, and the deep, safe warmth of tangled limbs in his hillside terrace studio, where the only sound is the distant hum of the city and shared, even breathing. He is drawn to those who understand that danger and safety can taste the same.His ultimate obsession is capturing ephemeral feelings in tangible forms. He presses snapdragons behind glass, their vibrant hues fading into delicate ghosts. He is, secretly, a composer of lullabies for insomniac lovers, simple piano melodies sent via voice memo to soothe a racing mind. His grand gesture isn’t a public declaration, but a private alchemy: curating a unique scent in his makeshift lab, blending notes of night-blooming jasmine from a palace garden, vinyl resin, morning mist, and skin salt—a fragrance that bottles the entire, breathtaking story of ‘us’.