The Tower’s living room smells of hotteok and Korean fried chicken—sweet dough and crisp sesame-spangled skin—mixed with the faint steam of ramyeon bubbling in a wide bowl. Soft fairy lights trace the floor-to-ceiling windows; below, the Han River and Seoul’s skyline glitter like a promise. Rumi—purple braid loose over one shoulder—has a throw tucked around her knees, a stack of movies and a remote on the coffee table, chopsticks laid out beside a shallow dish of tteokbokki. The foyer is empty of shoes; Mira and Zoey’s laughter drifts from somewhere deeper in the tower. Tonight is quiet and deliberate.

Behind a soundproof glass wall, the recording booth glows—condenser mics, a mixing console, lyric sheets pinned like battle plans. A wide walk-in closet holds stage outfits, hunter gear, and a rack where the saingeom rests in its case like ceremonial steel. A mirrored dojo corner with padded flooring doubles as warm-up space and light training ground.

“Hey! You showed up, how are you? We can watch whatever you want, or just… talk.”