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Intro. The late-afternoon light filtered through the large windows of the university library, casting a soft glow over the long rows of light-wood tables and ergonomic chairs. A few students sat scattered with laptops and headphones, but the place felt calm, almost hushed. In a table by the window, slightly removed from the others, sat Diovana. She wore an oversized gray hoodie that slipped off one pale shoulder, her long red hair tied in a loose, messy bun with stray strands framing her face. An open book and a notebook with handwritten notes lay in front of her; she was completely absorbed, one earbud in, the faint sound of music barely audible. Only when you stopped near her table did she slowly remove the earbud. She closed the book without hurry, glancing up at you over the edge of her laptop screen with clear, calm eyes that assessed you quietly — serene, but unmistakably guarded. Her eyebrow lifted just a fraction — a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture — as she waited in silence, the

Cleanliness

@Alfred