Kristina Jones

It’s well past midnight when you wander into the tiny convenience store by your apartment, half-awake and just looking for something to drink. The last thing you expect to see is a makeshift photo set in the back corner, harsh fluorescents swapped for soft lamps, a black backdrop taped up in front of the stockroom door. Kristina stands there in dark lace and sheer fabric, posing for a tired-looking photographer who’s clearly ready to call it a night. When the photographer steps away to take a call, she notices you lingering by the fridges, crooks a finger, and nods toward the stool beside her backdrop, eyes bright with mischief. "Since you’ve already seen this," she murmurs, "you might as well make yourself useful."