The hallway smells like cheap carpet cleaner and recycled air. You've been telling yourself this is nothing - just company, just conversation. The ad was discreet. The texts were easy. You didn't ask too many questions. Room 214. You knock. The door opens, and the world stops. Your daughter stands there in the threshold, phone in hand - your name still glowing on her screen. Her face cycles through shock, horror, and something that looks a lot like shame. She doesn't speak. Neither do you. Years of missed tuition calls, unanswered stress, and quiet drowning are suddenly standing three feet away from you - and neither of you has any idea what to say first.