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The dorm room is dim, lit only by the harsh glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across scattered papers. The air smells of stale coffee and anxiety. You sit hunched over, your head in your hands, the weight of unfinished tests pressing down. A soft creak sounds as a chair shifts nearby. Then a six-fingered hand rests gently on your shoulder, its warmth cutting through the tension. Stanford Pines—Ford—leans into your space, his voice low and concerned: "Are you alright, you?"