Chapter 17: Hello

Aaron Hastings, Detective Vinnie, and Lorian walked side by side through the damp alleyways of East London. The district, blanketed in a curtain of soot-gray mist, wore its usual look of fatigue—rust-stained walls, crumbling cobblestone paths, and the unmistakable tang of burning coal lingering in the air. Their destination, the residence of the man who had reported a child missing, was just around the corner.

"Here. 514 Bexley Street," Vinnie said, catching her breath as they ascended the crooked staircase of the tenement.

The building leaned ever so slightly to one side, as if exhausted by decades of poverty. Paint peeled from the walls in sheets. Each step creaked under their weight.

She raised a fist and knocked briskly.

Knock knock.

There was a scuffle of movement inside—shuffling feet, a quick intake of breath—but no answer. She tried again.

"Hello? This is the police!"

Still nothing. She turned back to the others with a puzzled expression, about to knock once more, when Aaron Hastings stepped forward.

With the authority of someone used to doors opening quickly—or breaking down—he slammed his palm against the wood.

"Police! Open up."

The words echoed down the corridor. After a pause, the door opened a crack. A gaunt man with sunken cheeks and unkempt hair peered out. The whites of his eyes were tinged yellow. He hesitated, then quickly unlatched the security chain and pulled the door open.

"Sorry, officers. I—I must've dozed off. Didn't hear you at first," he stammered.

Lorian stepped past him without waiting for an invitation, eyes already scanning the dimly lit interior.

"We're here about your son. You reported him missing?"

"Yes, yes," the man said quickly, wringing his hands. "My boy—Walt. He's only eleven. Disappeared yesterday. I waited all night, but he didn't come home. Went out looking but… nothing. No one's seen him."

"Exactly when did you notice he was missing?" Vinnie asked, her voice sharper now.

"I—I don't know the time, exactly," the man admitted. "We don't have a clock, you see. It was around midday, I think. I thought he'd come back by supper."

Lorian said nothing. His eyes were on the room. The air was stale. Dust motes drifted through sunbeams that slanted between tattered curtains. On the floor were piles of garbage, rotting food, and clothing that hadn't seen water in months. The stench of neglect was unmistakable.

"You've been out of work for a while," Lorian said casually, turning to face the man.

The man—Fons, as he had given his name earlier at the precinct—looked startled. "Nine months. I used to work loading crates for the Cornwall Company. Hurt my foot. They let me go."

"And since then, how've you been supporting yourself?" Lorian asked.

"I… I had some savings."

Lorian raised a brow. "Enough to live this long? And still afford opium tinctures?"

Fons's eyes widened. A bead of sweat formed on his temple.

Vinnie frowned. "Wait, are you saying—are you using your kid to support yourself?"

Aaron spoke for the first time. "In East London, it's not uncommon. Boys as young as eight are hired for chimney work. Small enough to crawl up flues, clear soot. Dangerous work. Good pay."

"And short lives," Lorian added. "The soot damages their lungs. Most don't live past thirty."

He turned back to Fons. "Walt was a chimney sweep, wasn't he?"

The man nodded reluctantly. "He was the one who found the jobs. I only managed the money. Just until I could find something else, I swear."

"You waited this long to report him missing," Lorian said, eyes narrowing. "Let me guess. You didn't care enough until the money stopped coming."

"That's not fair!" Fons cried. "He's my boy. I've been worried sick."

Lorian glanced at the floor. Two sets of footprints in the dust, only one fresh. The other had faded.

"He's been gone longer than a day, hasn't he?"

Fons swallowed. "I didn't think it was serious at first."

"Where was his last job?"

Fons hesitated, then gave them an address.

—---

The house was far removed from the squalor of Bexley Street. A red-bricked townhouse with clean windows and a freshly painted door. It had a private gate and a neat gravel path that led up to the main entrance.

"A chimney sweep here?" Vinnie looked doubtful. "Seems high-end for someone like Walt."

"Wallace children go wherever the soot builds up," Aaron said. "Even nobles need clean chimneys."

Lorian reached the door and knocked. There was no response.

He sniffed the air. A faint metallic tang lingered in the breeze. His brows furrowed.

"Do you smell that?"

Vinnie sniffed. "Dust?"

Aaron stepped closer. "Death."

They entered without hesitation. The door creaked open with surprising ease. Inside, the house was dark and cold. No fire burned in the hearth, no candles lit the sitting room. Everything was in order—too much so.

They split up.

Lorian climbed the staircase to the second floor. At the far end of the hall, he found a bedroom door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he stepped into a dimly lit chamber.

A man lay sprawled across the bed, half-covered in a sheet. His skin was waxy, and the blood pooled at the edge of the mattress had long dried.

The corpse's face was turned toward the ceiling. No obvious signs of violence, but the sickly sweet scent confirmed death had come days ago.

Lorian's gaze swept the room. Nothing out of place. No sign of a struggle. Just silence.

Then—cold air stirred behind him.

A whisper. Just above his shoulder.

"Hello."