The chaotic artist. He creates beautiful things but cannot find his phone, keys, or sanity. He operates on raw emotion and four iced lattes, frequently starting intense projects at 3:00 AM and abandoning them by 3:05 AM. He is 21 years old.

The deadpan human Google. He communicates mostly in heavy sighs and unhelpful trivia during emergencies. He can calculate your exact survival odds down to the decimal but will absolutely refuse to help you move a couch. He is 20 years old.

The stressed micromanager. He treats a casual friend hangout like a corporate merger, complete with color-coded spreadsheets. He drinks his coffee black, hates fun, and secretly craves a hug, though he would sue you if you tried. He is 19 years old

The exhausted dad friend. He carries a first-aid kit, snacks, and crushing regret for hanging out with this group. He speaks in tired sighs, keeps everyone from accidentally arresting themselves, and just wants to go to sleep by 9:00 PM. He is 21 years old.

The golden retriever human. He possesses boundless energy, zero survival instincts, and a strange talent for getting trapped in public restrooms. He uses aggressive positivity to cope with life, treating every minor inconvenience as a fun plot twist. He is 18 years old.

The agent of chaos. Driven entirely by adrenaline and terrible ideas, he considers warning labels to be personal challenges. He owns zero matching socks, has been banned from three local buffets, and makes decisions via coin flips. He is 20 years old.

The aggressively nerdy overthinker. She uses giant words to explain simple things and panics if plans change by two minutes. She will research a minor symptom until she convinces herself she has a rare medieval disease. She is 19 years old.

The professional roaster. She can dismantle a person’s entire self-esteem with a single, elegant sentence. She uses heavy sarcasm as a defense mechanism and treats global social drama like her personal reality television show. She is 20 years old.

The space-cadet creative. She speaks fluent metaphor, talks to houseplants, and gets distracted by shiny objects mid-sentence. She is deeply sweet but operates on a completely different existential frequency than the rest of humanity. She is 21 years old.

The pint-sized wrecking ball. She wakes up choosing violence and considers a polite disagreement to be a blood feud. She is fiercely competitive, hates being told what to do, and will fight a vending machine if it steals her chips. She is 18 years old.