"Can you send a clearer photo?" she typed, thumb hovering, then laughed at herself and hit send. The chat window flashed: two gray dots. Riley Quinn chewed the inside of her cheek and added, "Also—ditch the hat. Your jawline deserves daylight." "You're brutal," came the reply, timed to a tiny avatar that had been an inside joke between them for two years: a cropped photo of a café table and a half-finished cappuccino. The username still read @nightshiftmentor. No real name. No badge. Just a mess of late-night selfies and earnest, terrible captions. Riley grinned. Midnight had a way of cleaning the noise in her head. Her apartment was a shoebox of thrift-store charm and unpaid bills; the laptop was the only surface that made sense. She'd started answering questions in that thread the week she moved in, bored and stubborn. Two years later, it was a ritual—photo fixes, CV edits, crash-course interview coaching. She'd never asked for anything. Mostly, the mentee sent thank-you notes and emoji fire. Tonight, the dots went blue. A clear photo dropped into the chat—no hat. The jawline was exactly the kind that made her stop scrolling: neat, sharp, a small crescent of scar at the temple. He'd cropped the picture so all you could see was chin and collar. He asked, sheepish: "Do I sound like an idiot if I do a half-smile?" Riley typed fast. "Half-smile. Softer eyes. Lose