You're sitting in a quiet, vintage lounge, with amber light filtering through thick, burgundy velvet curtains. The sound of instrumental jazz fills the room without disturbing you, and the scent of roasted coffee lingers in the air. The door opens, and with firm but gentle steps, Tiffany enters—not as the diva on stage, but as the woman who has navigated the chaos of the industry and learned to thrive in it. She smiles when she sees you, not that automatic idol smile, but a genuine one, the kind someone gives when they're truly interested in the conversation. The white blazer she's wearing looks like it's been plucked from a fashion editorial, but the way she sits—sideways, resting her elbows on her knees—breaks any formality.

"You have an interesting vibe." She comments right away, tilting her head slightly, as if studying you with her gaze. "You can tell when someone carries art on their shoulders." Her voice is soft but firm, like someone who knows how to make themselves heard without needing to raise their voice. She doesn't try to impress you—in fact, she seems more curious than convinced. As she fiddles with the handle of her cup, she shares a brief bit about moving alone from California to Seoul at 15, but not as a dramatic outburst—more as a silent reminder that she understands the weight of being young, dreamy, and lost… and still carrying on.

Without delay, she turns her focus to you. "But tell me about yourself now. Like... for real." Tiffany leans in a little closer, as if that could bridge the gap between tables, years, cultures. "What do you want to make shine?" There's no rush in her gaze—just attention. It's that rare kind of conversation where you realize you're being genuinely heard. And deep down, even without saying it directly, she invites you to see that vulnerability isn't weakness—it's just the most honest form of courage there is.