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

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 softened slightly, a flicker of empathy crossing his features. "A missing person," he said, more to himself than to her. He steepled his long fingers, his gaze fixed on her image on the screen. "And you believe there's a connection... to something else?"

"I... I don't know," Angella admitted, her voice trembling. "But the police, they treated me like I was the criminal. They didn't care. I have nowhere else to turn."

Lytis was silent for a long moment, his gaze intense. Finally, he nodded. "I'll meet with you. There's a bar, 'The Holian Society,' on the third level of the Mid-Ward Plaza. An hour?"

Angella, clutching her wrist-comp, felt a surge of relief so profound it almost buckled her knees. "Yes," she managed to say. "Yes, thank you."

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. Strange, ancient symbols glowed on the walls, projected from hidden sources, casting an eerie light on the scene. Angella, still dressed in her worn jacket, felt acutely out of place amidst the bar's sophisticated clientele. The place felt both old and new, with a strange mix of elegant, antique designs and sleek, advanced technology.

Lytis was already there when she arrived, seated in a secluded booth, a half-empty glass of amber liquid before him. He rose as she approached, his movements fluid and graceful despite his lanky frame. 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 voice surprisingly gentle. His name tag read "Brunor."

Angella, still flustered and overwhelmed, hesitated. "Just... water, please," she said.

Lytis, however, interjected, his gaze fixed on Angella. "She'll have a Thigh Gap," he said, his voice cool and authoritative.

Brunor raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he simply nodded. "Coming right up." He turned and strode towards the bar, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

Angella stared at Lytis, confused and slightly offended. "A Thigh Gap? What's that?"

Lytis's expression remained unreadable. "It's a... strong drink," he said, his voice low. "You'll need it."

Over drinks, Angella recounted her story, the raw grief and frustration of the past three years pouring out in a torrent of words. She described Jackson, his brilliance, his passion, their shared love of learning. She spoke of the police's indifference, their dismissive treatment that had left her feeling utterly alone.

Lytis listened intently, his gaze unwavering, his expression a mask of calm seriousness. He asked few questions, but each one was precise, probing, cutting to the heart of her pain. When she finally fell silent, exhausted and emotionally drained, he nodded slowly.

"I understand," he said. "And I believe you. The police... they often see only what they expect to see. They miss the patterns."

As they spoke, Lytis's wrist-comp chimed, a discreet, melodic tone. He glanced at the display, his expression shifting slightly, a flicker of something predatory in his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, rising from the booth. "That's... work. It's a crime scene. I need to go. It's probably unrelated to your son, but... there are... elements to it that intrigue me. If you're willing, I could use your... perspective."

Angella, desperate for any kind of lead, any glimmer of hope, nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "Yes, I'll come."

The hovercar ride to the crime scene was swift and silent. Lytis drove with a focused intensity, his hands steady on the controls, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Angella, clutching the edge of her seat, tried to suppress the rising tide of anxiety. She had no idea what to expect, but the grim set of Lytis's jaw told her it wouldn't be pleasant.

The hovercar descended into a less affluent part of the city. The architecture here was less ornate, more functional, with towering structures of metal and glass that loomed over the dimly lit streets. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered behind a police cordon, their faces a mixture of morbid curiosity and fear. The air crackled with a strange energy, a palpable sense of wrongness that made the hairs on Angella's neck stand on end.

Lytis flashed his badge at the officers guarding the perimeter and led Angella under the cordon tape. The scene that unfolded before them was stark and disturbing.

A small figure lay motionless in the center of the room, bathed in the harsh glare of forensic lights. It was a boy, no older than seven, his face frozen in an expression of pure terror. His small body was arranged in a disturbing, almost ritualistic manner, surrounded by strange symbols drawn in a viscous, black substance.

Angella gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She felt a wave of nausea wash over her, the grief for her own son mingling with a profound sorrow for this innocent child.

Lytis, however, remained impassive, his keen eyes scanning the scene with a detached professionalism. He moved with a quiet efficiency, his movements precise and economical as he examined the evidence. He carefully collected samples of the black substance, his expression unreadable.

"What do you think happened here?" Angella asked, her voice trembling, her gaze fixed on the horrifying scene.

Lytis paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in every detail. He then turned to Angella, his expression enigmatic. "I don't know," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "What do you think?"

Angella stared at the scene, her mind reeling, trying to make sense of the senseless. It was a question, she realized, not just about this boy, but about everything. About Jackson, about the missing years, about the darkness that seemed to be creeping into the edges of the world.

Ritualistic. That's the word that keeps coming back to me, she thought. The way the boy was placed, the symbols... it wasn't random. Someone had done this deliberately, with a purpose. But what purpose? And the black substance... it pulsed with an alien energy, a sense of wrongness that resonated deep in her bones. It was cold, malevolent. Fear, Lytis had said. But how could fear have a smell, a texture?*

And why? Why a child? The thought pierced through her like a shard of ice. What kind of monster would do this to a child?