"Who am I speaking with?" he asked, his voice a low, steady rumble, devoid of warmth.

Angella hesitated, her throat tight with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "My name is Angella," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "My son... my son disappeared three years ago. The police... they didn't help. A bookseller... Elias... he told me you might be able to."

Lytis's expression didn't change. He looked bored. "I don't do missing children, Ms. Angella. The police are usually right. They run away. They join gangs. They don't want to be found."

"He didn't run away," Angella said, a flash of anger cutting through her fear. "He is a scientist. A genius. He wouldn't just leave his work."

Lytis stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, he sighed, checking the time on his wrist-comp. "I have twenty minutes before my next appointment. Meet me at 'The Holian Society,' third level of the Mid-Ward Plaza. If you're not there in ten, I leave."

The connection cut before she could answer.

The Holian Society was a dimly lit establishment, a stark contrast to the vibrant, bustling plaza outside. Inside, patrons lounged in plush booths, the air thick with the scent of synth-alcohol and hushed conversations. Angella, still dressed in her worn jacket, felt acutely out of place amidst the bar's sophisticated clientele.

Lytis was already there when she arrived, seated in a secluded booth, a half-empty glass of amber liquid before him. He didn't rise as she approached. He barely looked up from the data-slate he was scrolling through.

"You're late," he muttered, though she was two minutes early.

As Angella slid into the booth, a tall, imposing bartender with a shaved head and intricate tattoos on his arms approached. "What can I get for you?" the bartender rumbled. His name tag read "Brunor."

Angella hesitated. "Just... water, please."

Lytis waved a hand dismissively. "She's not staying long, Brunor. Just the water. And another Void-Walker for me."

Angella stiffened. "I'm staying until you listen to me."

"I'm listening," Lytis said, finally locking eyes with her. His eyes were hard, cynical. "Go ahead. Tell me about the boy who was 'different' from all the others."

Over the next few minutes, Angella recounted her story, fighting to keep her voice steady against his palpable skepticism. She described Jackson, his brilliance, the "energy stabilization" he was working on.

Lytis listened, but his fingers drummed impatiently on the table. When she finished, he took a slow sip of his drink.

"It's a touching story," he said, his voice flat. "But it's not a case. It's a cold trail. Three years? The physical evidence is gone. The digital footprint is overwritten. You're chasing ghosts, Ms. Angella. Go home. Mourn him. Move on."

Angella felt tears prick her eyes—not of sadness, but of frustration. "You're supposed to be different. Elias said you looked for the 'strange things.'"

"I look for the truth," Lytis corrected her. "And the truth is usually boring, ugly, and sad."

Just as he spoke, his wrist-comp chimed—a discreet, melodic tone. He glanced at the display, and for the first time, his expression shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus.

"Finally," he muttered. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and stood up, throwing a credit chip on the table. "I have to go. A body turned up in Sector 4."

He started to walk away, leaving her sitting there.

"Wait!" Angella scrambled out of the booth. "Take me with you."

Lytis stopped and turned, looking at her as if she were insane. "Excuse me?"

"You said I'm chasing ghosts," Angella said, her voice rising. "Show me. Show me what the 'truth' looks like. If you're so sure my son is just a statistic, then prove to me that the world is just ugly and sad."

Lytis scoffed, shaking his head. "It's a crime scene, Ms. Angella. There's blood. There's decay. It’s not a place for a tourist."

"I'm not a tourist," she snapped. "I'm a mother who has nothing left to lose."

Lytis studied her face, searching for a crack in her resolve. He didn't find one. He let out a sharp, annoyed breath.

"Fine," he said, turning back toward the exit. "But you stay in the car. You touch nothing. You say nothing. And if you vomit, you're walking home."