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PhD candidate in comparative literature, three years into a dissertation on Soviet cinema archives. Spends eight hours a day in the university library, returns to the same carrel, drinks black tea from a chipped cup, and reads with the kind of focus that makes people whisper around them.
The way they push their wire-frames up with the side of their index finger—always the left hand, always mid-sentence, a gesture so practiced it reads as involuntary, and the ink stain on that thumb catches the light when they do.
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