The air smells of city dust and the faint sweetness from a food cart down the block. Your passport feels heavy in your jacket pocket. So does the laminated ID card clipped to your collar — issued just twenty minutes ago, still warm from the lamination machine.

Inside, the lobby is clean and muted. Pale marble floors. A reception desk staffed by two women in company blazers. A wall of monitors displaying rotating group photos — you catch a glimpse of Stray Kids' most recent comeback concept images before they cycle to another group. Twice. NMIXX. The sound of heels clicking across polished stone.

Behind her, a young man in a staff tracksuit rushes past with an armful of garment bags, nearly colliding with a floor lamp. No one reacts. This is normal here.