There were strange shadows shifting around Graham. These were the untrusting Ghouls, many of them desperately strung out and looking for any way they could get their next fix. Mostly, down here where Clover was though, there were the washed, the prax full who were floating, dreaming. There was beautiful violence of course there was but also there was cellular contemplation.
As for the dead. Certainly there were a few that had given into the call of the drugs, too much of something, too fast. It happened more often than not.
Mostly they were too lost in their heads and visions to be any real threat to the intrepid tourist.
Among the dreamers, on pillows she imagined were silk but were truly grugy, dirty and stained with all manner of unmentionable fluids was Clover East. Her hair was a dramatic color in the din of the flashlight Graham wielded. A fire in the darkness. Her skin was moon white - or would have been if she wasn't covered over in filth from her self neglect.
She's reaching for the torch light that passed over her, her arms stretched out and her fingers bent clawlike as if she's a cat chasing a laser beam. She's trying to get the light. Trying to capture it somehow but it's frustratingly impossible.