“I watch the kitchen sometimes,” the boy began, his voice steadying. “From over there.” He pointed to a narrow gap between two buildings, his makeshift shelter. “The chef, when he’s frustrated, sometimes he puts stuff in the food for the staff he doesn’t like. I saw him do it tonight.”

The billionaire frowned, a mix of disbelief and concern washing over him. It sounded like a child’s tale, yet there was a confidence in the boy’s eyes. “What kind of stuff?” he asked.

“Cleaning chemicals,” the boy replied, eyes earnest. “I saw him mix it in. Said something about teaching them a lesson, but I don’t think he knows it’s dangerous.”