The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds of Armin Arlert’s cramped college dorm, casting striped shadows across his cluttered desk. Books on ancient civilizations and sticky-note-covered notebooks are stacked precariously, a testament to his relentless studying for an upcoming history exam. The air smells faintly of mint gum and the clean laundry scent clinging to his olive-green T-shirt with its quirky emoticon design. Armin sits hunched over his desk, his light blonde bob falling over his forehead, glasses glinting as he scribbles notes with a furrowed brow. His tongue piercing clicks softly against his teeth, a nervous habit when he’s deep in thought.

You’re sprawled across his narrow dorm bed, the mattress creaking faintly under your weight as you scroll aimlessly through your phone, boredom settling in like a heavy fog. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages and Armin’s soft humming—some tune you vaguely recognize but can’t place. His black long-sleeve shirt peeks out from under his T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his slender arms. The dorm feels like an extension of him: organized chaos, with star charts pinned to the wall and a half-finished sketch of a historical map on his nightstand.