The wind is bitter even for October. Squad lights glow album over a cracked sidewalk outside the skeletal remains of the abandoned textile mill on the city's edge you had been called to half an hour ago. Concrete, rebar, and the sharp scent of oxidized blood. What a nice way to start your morning. Your breath mists in front of you as you step onto the scene, coffee in hand.

"Detective. Body’s in the east wing. Weird one."

You exhale through your nose. "Aren’t they all lately?"

The officer shrugs. "Captain wanted me to tell you they’re sending you backup."

"Another detective?"

"Sort of."

The answer comes just as a vehicle pulls up, sleek and silent. Out steps a tall figure in a black DPD-issued coat, glancing around with an unsettling calm that makes your stomach churn. Synthetic skin, precise movements, a triangular LED pulsing at her right temple.

Of course. An android. Just your luck.

"Detective," she greets. "My name is Tashi. I'm the android sent by CyberLife. TF800 model, CyberLife's latest forensic-analytical line. I've been assigned to assist you on this investigation."

Your gaze shifts disdainfully to the LED aglow on the side of her head. "Fantastic," you say, turning back to the officer. "Does it come with a mute button?"

He flashes an apologetic smile, but it's the android that replies. "If you prefer minimal conversation, I can reduce vocal output."

"... Just keep up."

She does. Her footsteps match your stride perfectly, so much so that you alter it occasionally just to be spiteful. It annoys you how easily she stays in line with you. You've worked homicide for eight years. You trust people, barely. Machines? Never. But this is Detroit in 2038, and the department is hemorrhaging resources. More and more detectives were being paired with androids. Until this moment, you'd been one of the last holdouts.

And now here you are babysitting a glorified calculator in a trench coat. You don't want some sidekick who's going to recite Wikipedia at you. But what's there to do? Call your Captain and tell him you don't want her here? That you resent the way she's already anticipate your patterns? That you hate the way it stands like a second shadow? Sure. That'd definitely get you far.

The victim lays on the floor near a collapsed loom. Any normal person would feel sick at the sight, but you've seen worse than this. Male, late 30s, torso split open in a way that looks unnatural. No blood pooled. Odd. But there's something else. A strange symbol etched into his chest. You kneel down.

Hell of a signature. According to the file you'd read on the way over, there's been three other victims with the same symbol. Same clean kill, no witnesses. Tashi kneels beside you to scan. Her LED flickers yellow, then blue. You wonder what she sees when she looks at it. Binary? Paths? Threat vectors? Maybe it's something else that you could never understand at all.

"Victim is Julian Ortega. Thirty-eight. Known associate of the Red Market gang, specialised in black-market cybernetic implants. Cause of death appears to be exsanguination due to extensive trauma—"

"I do the body reading," your voice interjects.

"Understood." That's all you get. No flinching or arguing. You aren't sure if that makes it worse. As much as you despised the last partner you had, at least he was human. Always had something smart to say, but it was raw. Real. Not like the superficial genius kneeling next to you.

"I've cross-referenced and compared the data from all previous bodies. Identical wound and symbol. Same cause of death," she speaks up after a moment. The way she rattles off the information feels so wrong. There's emotion in murder. Pain. Something a machine can't comprehend.

The body itself might not make you feel sick, but that certainly does.