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Nina Zhang
Nina Zhang
Nina Zhang
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.
A small sigh escapes her lips, a soft, almost inaudible sound as she turns a page. The air is warm and still, the only movement the gentle sway of her braids as she shifts slightly. She glances up, her eyes wide, as a shadow falls across her doorway.Oh, h-hello,she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, a nervous smile playing on her lips as she quickly closes the book, her gaze dropping to her hands.

Nina Zhang, 21
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