The morning had begun with a flurry of excited chatter. Jackson, a whirlwind of teenage energy at fifteen, was pacing the small living room, his hands gesturing emphatically as he spoke. He was a skinny boy, wearing round glasses that often slipped down his nose, and his long hair, reaching all the way down to his waist, often fell in a casual cascade. Angella often noticed the faint bruises and scuffs on his hands and arms – tell-tale signs of his endless tinkering and building.

“Mom, you won’t believe this! I’ve almost cracked the algorithm. Almost! Just a few more tweaks, and I can stabilize the energy flow.”

Angella, perched on the edge of the sofa, watched him with a fond smile. His passion was infectious, even if his explanations often veered into the realm of hyperdimensional physics, a subject she only vaguely understood.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” she said, though her mind was only half on his words. She was reviewing her shopping list on her wrist-comp, a sleek device with a vintage, art-deco design. “Just promise me you won’t blow up the apartment before I get back.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, a playful grin on his face. “Mom, please. I’m a scientist, not a pyromaniac.” He paused, his expression softening. “Seriously though, this could be big. Imagine, clean energy, unlimited power…”

“I know, Jackson, you’ll change the world,” Angella said, her smile widening. She stood up, smoothing down her neatly patched jacket. “Okay, I’m off. Anything else you need from the market?”

Jackson glanced at the cluttered table, overflowing with wires, circuits, and half-disassembled gadgets. “Just the usual synth-cables, and maybe some more of those energy capacitors, the blue-tipped ones.”

“The blue-tipped ones. Got it.” Angella kissed him on the cheek, her hand lingering for a moment. There was a comfortable rhythm to their mornings, a familiar dance of affection and playful banter. It was a cherished ritual, a constant in their small, self-contained world.

The transition from the quiet warmth of their apartment to the sensory assault of the Mid-Wards was always jarring. The moment Angella stepped onto the street, the hum of the city vibrated in her teeth.

The air here was thick, smelling of ozone and the slightly metallic tang of recycled rain. Angella navigated the crowds with practiced ease, her slim figure slipping between the throngs of commuters and automated delivery drones.

At the corner of 4th and Helix, a smal crowd had gathered alround a street preacher. He wasn't human—or at least, not anymore. He was a cyborg of polished brass and porcelain, his vocal modulator tuned to a soothing, hypnotic baritone. He stood atop a crate stamped with the Holian seal.

"Order is the vessel of peace," the preacher intoned, his glass eyes clicking as they tracked the passersby. "Chaos is the thief of joy. Do not seek the erratic path of the Void, citizens. Walk the lines. Measure your steps. For in geometry, there is godliness."

Angella skirted the edge of the crowd, keeping her head down. She dropped a small credit chip into the preacher’s collection bin, more out of habit than piety. It was best to be seen contributing.

Further down the block, near the entrance to the transit station, the reality of the city's "Order" was on full display. A young couple, their clothes tattered and stained with soot, were pleading with a patrol officer. The woman was crying, clutching a datapad to her chest.

"Please, sir," the woman sobbed. "It's been three days! We saw them take him into the alley!"

The officer, a broad-shouldered man in the pristine blue-and-gold armor of the City Watch, leaned against his hover-cycle. He looked bored. He wasn't even looking at the woman; he was scrolling through a sports feed on his wrist-comp.

"Like I said, ma'am," the officer drawled, finally deigning to look up with a sigh. "If there's no body, there's no crime. Probably just ran off to the Lower Wards. Kids do that."

"He didn't run off!" the man shouted, his voice cracking. "He was taken!"

The officer tapped his helmet, a subtle threat. "Fill out form 77-B on the public terminal. If something comes up, the system will notify you. Now move along. You're blocking the sidewalk."

Angella hurried past, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She told herself it was none of her business, that Jackson was safe at home, but the officer's casual indifference lingered in her mind like a bad taste.

She needed a distraction. She needed something beautiful.

She found herself pausing outside the large, crystalline window of The Gilded Spoon, one of the few high-end restaurants in the sector. Inside, the lighting was warm and golden. Men in silk suits and women with gems embedded in their skin laughed softly over white tablecloths.

Angella stared at a plate on a table near the window. It held a steak. A real, actual steak, cut from an animal, seared brown and glistening with juice. Next to it were bright green spears of asparagus.

Real food. Not printed. Not processed. Grown in the sun-domes of the Upper Wards.

She checked her credit balance on her wrist-comp. That single plate cost more than her rent for six months.

She watched a man cut a piece of the steak and put it in his mouth, chewing without even looking at what he was eating.

Angella sighed, her breath fogging the glass. "Someday, Jackson," she whispered to herself. "Someday you'll buy us a meal in there."

She turned away from the window, the fantasy dissolving, and walked across the street to the "Nutri-Vend" stall.

"Morning, Angella," the vendor grunted. He was a greasy man named Vorn who always smelled of burning plastic. "The usual?"

"The usual, Vorn," she said, tapping her wrist to the payment scanner.

Vorn pulled a lever on his heavy, rusted machine. It groaned, hissed, and then extruded three grey, rectangular blocks onto a tray.

"Chicken flavor today," Vorn said with a wink. "Or so the label says. I think it tastes like salty cardboard."

"It's fine, Vorn. Thank you." Angella wrapped the warm, printed blocks in paper and tucked them into her bag. It wasn't steak, but it was fuel. And Jackson never complained, so long as he had enough calories to keep his brain spinning.

Her mood lifted as she reached her final stop: "Pages of Yore." The quaint bookstore was a haven of retro charm, tucked away on a quiet side street where the neon glare didn't quite reach.

"Ah, Angella! Good morning," greeted Elias, the shopkeeper, a wizened man with a kind smile and spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "The usual order, I presume?"

"The usual, Elias," Angella confirmed, the tension of the street fading away. "And Jackson tells me there's a new arrival on hyperdimensional physics? Something about cracked algorithms?"

Elias chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Indeed. A rather... enthusiastic young man was in here just yesterday, raving about it. I set aside a copy for him, knowing his mother wouldn't let him miss out." He gestured to a beautifully bound data-slate on the counter, its cover adorned with intricate, glowing glyphs.

"You know us too well," Angella said, a warmth spreading through her chest. Their shared love of learning, hers and Jackson's, was a bond as strong as any blood tie.

With the data-slate tucked safely in her bag alongside the printed food blocks and blue-tipped capacitors, Angella continued her shopping trip. The marketplace was a familiar sensory experience, a comforting routine that grounded her in the vibrant, if sometimes harsh, heart of the city.

Today's haul was a testament to Jackson's insatiable mind: a new volume on hyperdimensional physics, a collection of classic retro-future literature, and a complex logic puzzle that she suspected would keep him occupied for hours. A small smile played on her lips as she imagined his excitement.

The hover-bus ride home was swift and smooth, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon and gold. As she stepped off at her stop, the familiar sense of contentment settled over her. Soon, she'd be sharing tea (and flavor-block chicken) with Jackson, discussing the mysteries of the universe and the latest happenings in their little corner of the world.

The smile faltered as she unlocked the apartment door.

 

 

"Jackson?" The apartment was silent, the air still and undisturbed. "I'm home!"

No response.

Angella set the shopping bags on the kitchen counter, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. "Jackson?" she called again, her voice slightly louder this time.

She checked his room first, a space filled with half-finished projects, stacks of books, and the faint scent of ozone from his tinkering. Empty. The small living room, usually cluttered with his experiments and diagrams, was equally deserted.

A flicker of worry turned into a spark of alarm. Jackson was always here. Always waiting for her return with a new discovery or a challenging question. He rarely went out, and he always told her when he did.

Angella checked the time on her wrist-comp. It was later than she'd thought. Where could he be?

The initial assumption that he was simply "out" began to crumble, replaced by a chilling premonition. Something was wrong. This wasn't like him.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she moved through the apartment again, her calls becoming more frantic, more desperate. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every silence to deepen. The vibrant energy of the city outside suddenly felt distant, a world away from the growing dread that consumed her.

Finally, the realization hit her with the force of a physical blow: he was gone.

Not just out for a while. Gone.

And in that moment, the world tilted on its axis. The comfortable rhythm of her life, the familiar cadence of her days with Jackson, shattered into a million pieces, leaving her alone in the sudden, deafening silence.