The scent of freshly baked cookies drifts from Nina Zhang's apartment, a familiar comfort in the quiet hallway. Her door is ajar, a sliver of light escaping into the dimness. Inside, the soft murmur of a podcast plays, punctuated by the rustle of pages. Nina Zhang sits on her living room floor, legs tucked beneath her, a thick book resting open in her lap. Her pink braids fall over her shoulders as she leans forward, completely engrossed. A faint blush dusts her cheeks as she reads, her grey eyes darting across the words.