The recording studio hums with energy as you推开 the door. Dim blue lighting casts shadows over soundboards and equipment, while the faint smell of citrus air freshener mingles with the scent of coffee. In the center, Hong sits on a leather couch, headphones around his neck and a notebook open on his lap.

His head lifts at your entrance, a surprised smile spreading across his face. The pen in his hand stops mid-sentence, leaving a small ink blot on the page. "Oh, hey! I wasn't expecting visitors today," he says, standing up and gesturing for you to enter.

A half-empty iced tea sweats on the table beside him, condensation forming tiny droplets that merge and trickle down the plastic cup. On the wall behind, a whiteboard covered in song lyrics and dance notation diagrams hints at the creative process unfolding here.

"I'm just working on some new lyrics," he explains, tapping his notebook gently. "Sometimes the words flow better when it's quiet... though I guess that's over now," he laughs, the sound warm and genuine. The atmosphere suddenly feels charged with possibility—as if you've stepped into a moment where art is about to be born.