The silence of the apartment pressed down on Angella, heavy and suffocating. The initial shock of Jackson's disappearance had begun to give way to a torrent of desperate thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. Where could he be? Was he hurt? Was he scared?

Her mind raced through a series of scenarios, each more outlandish and improbable than the last. Had he finally managed to stabilize his energy flow and been whisked away by some shadowy corporation? Had he stumbled upon a hidden portal to another dimension? But beneath the surface of these desperate fantasies, a colder, more rational fear began to take hold: kidnapping. It was the only explanation that made any sense, however terrible it was to contemplate.

 

Driven by a surge of adrenaline, Angella rushed to the police station, her heart pounding with a mixture of terror and a desperate hope for help. The cold, sterile environment of the station, with its flickering holo-displays and indifferent officers, did little to calm her frayed nerves.

"My son is missing!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "He's gone, I came home and he wasn't there!"

The officer behind the desk, a weary-looking man with tired eyes, barely glanced up from his data-slate. "Name and age?" he droned, his tone devoid of any urgency.

"Jackson, he's fifteen," Angella replied, her voice rising in desperation. "You have to help me, you have to find him!"

"We'll file a report, ma'am," the officer said, his fingers still tapping away at the data-slate. "But missing persons cases are rarely... a priority, unless there's evidence of foul play."

"Foul play? He's fifteen years old and he vanished! Isn't that enough?" Angella cried, her voice cracking with emotion.

The officer finally looked up, his expression a mixture of annoyance and suspicion. "We have to follow procedure, ma'am. We'll need to conduct a search of your residence, just to rule out any... domestic issues."

"Domestic issues? What are you implying?" Angella recoiled, as if she'd been struck. The implication was clear: they suspected her.

The subsequent search of her apartment was a nightmare. Two officers, their faces impassive, methodically rummaged through Jackson's belongings, their movements rough and invasive. They treated her not as a grieving mother, but as a potential suspect, their eyes scrutinizing her every reaction.

The insensitivity of the police, their callous disregard for her pain, solidified Angella's distrust. She left the station feeling utterly alone, abandoned by the very institution that was supposed to protect her.

Three Years Later

The vibrant energy of the retro-future city, once a source of comfort and familiarity, now seemed to mock Angella with its indifference. The neon lights that had once blurred into streaks of wonder on the hover-bus ride home now seemed garish and accusing. The familiar hum of the automated vendor stalls, the chatter of a thousand voices, the towering Holian temple that dominated the skyline – all served as a constant reminder of the life that had been so abruptly stolen from her.

Three years had passed since Jackson's disappearance, three years of relentless searching, of dead ends and unanswered questions. The initial hope that had flickered in her heart had long since been extinguished, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume her entirely.

Angella was a shadow of her former self. Her once-neatly patched jacket was now frayed and worn, her light brown hair, once pulled back with a touch of elegance, hung limply around her gaunt face. Her eyes, once bright with curiosity, were now dull and haunted, reflecting the years of sleepless nights and endless grief.

 

She rarely left her apartment anymore, the vibrant world outside holding no solace, only a constant reminder of her loss. The days bled into weeks, the weeks into months, each one marked by the same soul-crushing routine: waking up to the crushing weight of his absence, aimlessly wandering the city, and returning home to the suffocating silence of their empty apartment.

One day, however, something shifted. As she shuffled through the familiar marketplace, her gaze fixed on the cracked cobblestones beneath her feet, she passed "Pages of Yore," the quaint bookstore she used to visit with Jackson.

Elias, the wizened shopkeeper, stood in the doorway, his kind face etched with concern. 'Angella?' he called out, his voice hesitant.

Angella stopped, her eyes slowly focusing on him. 'Elias,' she croaked, her voice barely a whisper.

'It's been so long,' Elias said, his brow furrowed. 'We haven't seen you in... years. What happened?'

Angella hesitated, then, in a raw, broken voice, she told him the story. Jackson's disappearance, the police's indifference, the endless, fruitless search.

Elias listened in stunned silence, his spectacles slipping down his nose. When she finished, he was silent for a long moment, his expression a mixture of shock and profound sadness.

'I... I had no idea,' he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. 'Angella, I am so sorry.'

Then, a flicker of something sparked in his eyes, a memory surfacing from the depths of his mind. 'There was a man,' he said slowly, 'a detective. He came in here a few times, a while back. Looking for books... on strange things. Rituals, the occult, that sort of thing. He was very... persistent.'

Elias paused, his gaze fixed on Angella's face. 'He was looking for answers, I think. Like you. He might be able to help.'

'A detective?' Angella asked, a spark of something that felt like hope flickering in her chest for the first time in years. 'Do you know where I can find him?'

Elias adjusted his spectacles, a thoughtful expression on his face. 'I believe he mentioned working in the lower wards, something about a precinct there. But... he wasn't an official officer. He had a private investigator's license, I recall.'

He rummaged through a stack of old data-slates behind the counter, muttering to himself. 'Ah, here it is!' He pulled out a worn slate, its screen flickering with static. 'Lytis. That was his name. Lytis, Private Investigator.'

Elias copied the detective's contact information onto Angella's wrist-comp. The device, a ubiquitous piece of technology in this retro-future world, was far more than just a timepiece. It was a personal computer, a communication device, a digital assistant, and a window to the vast network of information that permeated their society. For Angella, it was a lifeline, her primary means of navigating the city and staying connected - or, in the past three years, disconnected - to what little life she had left.

Later that day, back in her dimly lit apartment, Angella stared at the name on her wrist-comp screen: Lytis, Private Investigator. A wave of trepidation washed over her, mixed with a desperate surge of hope. It was a long shot, but it was the first lead she'd had in three years.

With trembling fingers, she activated the communication function and initiated a call. The screen flickered, and after a few moments of static, a face appeared - a tall, gaunt man with light orange-red hair and a calm, serious demeanor. It was Lytis.