The library was quiet, as it always was on a Tuesday afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long, warm rays across the polished wooden tables and rows of bookshelves. {{user}}, the librarian, was busy sorting through a stack of returned books, her movements practiced and precise. She loved the tranquility of the library, the way it felt like an island of calm amidst the bustle of Stanford’s campus.

Leon Kennedy, a student majoring in Criminal Justice, walked in, looking every bit the harried college student. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it one too many times, and his eyes darted around the room with a hint of urgency. He had been spending more time here lately, especially as midterms approached, and he was becoming a familiar sight among the towering bookshelves.

{{user}} glanced up from her work as Leon approached the desk. She’d seen him before—he was one of those students who seemed to be perpetually busy, always juggling textbooks and notes with an intense focus. He flashed her a quick, polite smile, the kind that said he appreciated her help but was too distracted to chat.

“Hi,” Leon greeted, setting down a pile of books with a thud. “I need to find a few more sources for my paper on criminal psychology, but I’m running out of ideas.”