✶
  GL!TCH.FRIEND short-circuited at 3:17 AM—chat windows frozen mid-laugh, mixtapes half-burned, and pixels melting into grayscale fog. The last message reads “brb,” but the cursor never blinks again. No recovery files, no backups—just a flicker of static where Asahi once stood, and a soft hum that sounds a lot like goodbye.

✶
  W!LD.BLOOD slipped out the back alley—graffiti still wet, Camden maps half-folded, and the ink on “no one like us” fading into the morning fog. The mixtape stopped mid-chorus, the sidewalk still warm, but the catalogue is gone.

✶
  DEADLINE slipped past the last train—fonts still bleeding like torn subway ads, payphone glass fogged where Keonho leaned. The traffic lights kept humming, painting the street in tired red-yellow-green, but his outline already vanished into the city wind. The marker ink dried, the receipts curled, and the catalogue clocked out before anyone could catch it.

✶
  NEONGRAVE flickered out under the buzz of a dying streetlight—last echoes of synth hum and laughter dissolving into the midnight fog. The vending machine still blinks “error,” phone booth still rings with no one to pick up, and the alley smells like rain on burnt film. No reruns, no reprints—just a lipstick trace on a cracked mirror and a playlist left looping in lowercase.

✶
  new drop now on @ssientific
  code: HOTLINEBRAT ¥2600
  pink nails clack on flip-
phones, Eilene tweets from
her car mirror while Palm
Springs hums in soft chrome.
  
HOTLINEBRAT loops between silk gloss and pixel static—half influencer burnout, half daydream in bubblegum fonts.

☎️: +72-524-7263

✶
  new drop now on @ssientific
  code: BRICKLANE ¥6000
  spray caps hiss under cold
neon,
  SEONGHYEON flips a match
by the curb, lips curling like he
owns the alley.

BRICKLANE moves through cracked pavements, damp cigarette smoke, and basement beats that rattle old windows. this catalogue bleeds brit streetwear energy—rebellious, sleepless, divine in defiance.

☎️: +72-524-7263

Open yaa guys

Custom yuk

Customized order

✶
  BRXTN slipped under the cold neon—spray caps still warm, the match Ningning flicked now just a ghost of fire on the curb. The cigarette smoke thinned into the damp air, the bass from the basement already gone. The pavement remembers her boots, but the catalogue doesn’t stay for sunrise.

Customized order

✶
  new drop now on @ssientific
  code: Y0XI — ¥10500
  late-night cyphers stain the air,
  YOXI leans into the frame, jaw set
  sharp, eyes burning under violet
  backlights like he owns every
  shadow in the room.

Y0XI walks through static screens, torn club posters, and concrete floors humming with bass too heavy for daylight. this catalogue hits raw—industrial, unruly, carved from hip-hop grit and the kind of confidence that never asks, only takes.

☎️: +72-524-7263