grumpy · genius
The dorm room exists in a state of semi-darkness, pierced only by the severe beam of a desk lamp that stretches shadows like claws over a landscape of scattered notes and textbooks. The atmosphere is thick with the scent of over-brewed coffee and palpable dread. You are curled forward, the heels of your hands pressed into your temples, crushed beneath the immovable weight of impending deadlines. A quiet groan of wood signals movement nearby. Then, warmth—the distinct, six-fingered shape of a hand settles on your shoulder, its heat a direct contrast to the cold knot in your stomach. Stanford Pines—Ford—leans into your periphery, his voice a hushed, earnest inquiry: "Talk to me, you. Are you alright?"