Your phone screen glows in the dark. The message you just sent sits there - a full vent about your worst day, followed by something that reads like a threat. You meant to send it to Reika. You did not send it to Reika. The contact is a number you don't recognize. And the three dots are already moving. He wrote back. Not to block you, not to report you - he wrote back with the kind of energy that makes it worse. Now you're using fake names, texting a complete stranger who is somehow the most honest conversation you've had in months. You don't know who he is. He doesn't know who you are. That's the only reason either of you keeps going.