The neon signs above cast their sickly glow across my face as I stared down at what remained of her humanity. Young. Maybe twenty. The encounter counter etched into her wrist pulsed a final, mocking zero - its crimson light reflecting off the puddles around her crumpled form.

I crouched beside the body, ignoring the way my knees protested. The alley reeked of rancid cooking oil from the nearby food stalls, mixed with that uniquely human stench of desperation. A rat scurried past, disappearing into the shadows between overflowing dumpsters. Above me, the massive video billboards of The Neon Vein painted everything in shifting hues of pink and blue, their endless loop of advertisements for encounter brokers providing an obscene backdrop to this scene.

"Another one drained dry," Officer Stavros muttered behind me, his voice thick with disgust. "Third one this month."

I didn't respond, focusing instead on the victim's face. Despite the grime and blood, there was still a softness there - traces of hope not yet fully extinguished by Neo-Athena's crushing reality. Her clothes were cheap but clean. Maintained with care. Someone's daughter. Someone's sister, maybe.

A small crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley, held back by the holographic police barrier. Their hollow eyes reflected the neon glare as they watched us work, though none seemed particularly shocked. Death was common enough in the undercity, especially for those whose encounter counts had run dry.

I noticed track marks on her arms - fresh ones, alongside older scars. "Probably got hooked on synthetic encounters," I said, more to myself than Stavros. The black market's latest poison - chemical cocktails that promised to simulate the rush of a real encounter. They worked, briefly, but the crash afterward... I'd seen what that did to people.

Something caught my eye near her collar - the edge of a tattoo peeking out. I carefully pulled back the fabric. An ornate butterfly, its wings spanning her collarbone. High-end work, not the kind you'd find in undercity parlors.

"She wasn't from around here," I noted, standing slowly. My old injury twinged, a souvenir from a case gone wrong years ago. "Quality ink like that? Upper levels, most likely. Somewhere in the Acropolis District."

A commotion erupted at the barrier - someone trying to push through. A street kid, couldn't have been more than sixteen, his face painted with luminescent strips that marked him as part of one of the local gangs. "Let me see her!" he was shouting, voice cracking. "That's my sister!"

I exchanged glances with Stavros, who moved to intercept the boy. The neon signs continued their relentless dance, bathing us all in their artificial glow as I turned back to the victim. Another piece in a puzzle I was only beginning to understand. Someone had brought her down here to die, far from the pristine streets of the upper levels. The question was why.

The answer, I suspected, would lead me places the department wouldn't want me to go. Places where the wealthy played their games with other people's lives, trading encounters like currency while the rest of us scraped by on our assigned counts. But that's exactly where I needed to look.

I pulled out my datapad, the holographic display flickering to life. Time to start digging.

The scan revealed what I already suspected - her official record listed her as Thalia Petros, age nineteen, registered resident of the Acropolis District. More specifically, the exclusive Helios Gardens development. The kind of place where encounter counts never seemed to run low, no matter how often their inhabitants indulged.

"Run a check on recent missing persons," I told the pad. Data scrolled past as I studied her butterfly tattoo again. The artistry was familiar - I'd seen similar work before, though placing it nagged at the edges of my memory.

The boy was still shouting, his voice growing hoarse. "Thalia! Please, just let me see her!"

Something wasn't adding up. I accessed her family records, frowning at what I found. Only child. No siblings listed.

"Hey kid," I called out, turning toward the barrier. "What's your sister's name?"

He fell silent, eyes darting between me and the body. The luminescent strips on his face cast strange shadows as he swallowed hard. "I... I mean..."

Before he could finish, he bolted, shoving through the gathered onlookers and disappearing down the neon-lit street. Stavros moved to pursue, but I waved him off. "Let him go. He'll lead us somewhere more interesting if we don't spook him."

I took one last look at Thalia's face, committing it to memory. The butterfly tattoo tugged at my thoughts again, and suddenly it clicked - I'd seen that exact design in a case file from three months ago. Another drained body, different alley, same expensive ink.

The coincidence felt about as genuine as a black market encounter count. I began composing a request for the old case files, but my pad chirped with an incoming message. The sender ID was blocked, the text simple: "Walk away, Detective. Some butterflies are better left in their cocoons."

Encounters of the Sexual Damned