The first time hip-hop captured me was on a midsummer evening when I was 17. Clutching my part-time job earnings, I found a worn CD in a corner of an old-town record store—on its cover, young people wore baggy T-shirts and ripped jeans, their eyes free from restraint. When I hit play, the drumbeats exploded like thunder, and the boldness and freedom in the lyrics pulled me into a whole new world instantly: it turned out that expressing oneself should be this unrestrained.​

Later, I became a "light chaser" on the streets. I saved every penny to buy oversize hoodies and cut rips into my jeans myself. At underground parties, I saw a girl with dreadlocks and work pants standing on the DJ stage, commanding the scene alongside boys. That’s when it hit me: hip-hop was never exclusive to one gender. But back then, clothes were always labeled "men’s" or "women’s"—girls had to rummage for the smallest size in the men’s section to get baggy work pants, while boys who liked bright-colored hoodies would be mocked for "not being manly enough." This invisible barrier pricked at my heart like a thorn.​

After graduating from college, I wandered through the city’s streets and alleys with a backpack full of design sketches. I watched teens in ill-fitting jackets leap into the air at skate parks, and girls in Martin boots dance wildly at livehouses. These vivid scenes strengthened my resolve: I had to break the constraints of gendered dressing. Thus, "ZNIAW" my little store, was born in an old house on a street corner.​

There were no separate "men’s" or "women’s" sections in my store—instead, clothes were displayed by "sense of freedom." On the left, racks held oversize shirts; whether a 180cm guy or a 155cm girl wore them, they exuded casualness. In the middle, washed work pants with adjustable waistbands and rollable cuffs sat on shelves—guys looked cool pairing them with Martin boots, while girls pulled off a chic vibe with canvas shoes. On the back wall, T-shirts printed with graffiti and lyrics hung; there were no "slim-fit" or "figure-flattering" gimmicks, just one rule: "If it feels good, it looks good."​

People ask me why I’m so committed to gender-neutral dressing. The answer is simple: freedom isn’t about others telling you what to wear—it’s about knowing what you want to wear. My store isn’t just a place to sell clothes; it’s a corner for anyone who loves freedom. Here, there’s no "what you should wear," only "what you love." Because the soul of hip-hop has always been boundless.​

Now, every day after closing up, I sit on the small steps outside the store and watch people pass by in all kinds of styles: some in oversize hoodies with miniskirts, others in work pants with high heels. Each figure is like a flowing hip-hop song. I know "Boundless Beats" is more than just a store—it’s a message: be brave enough to be yourself, for there are no boundaries to free dressing.