Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMGHZXV3KSASW5KE8E8AMZ

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and something older—copper, maybe, or the ghost of a thousand hurried commuters. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the last rung of the rusted ladder, her boots hitting the platform with a sharp *clack* that echoed down the empty tunnel. The beam of her torch carved a trembling circle through the dark, catching the peeling paint of a sign that read *Camden Town* in faded letters. The air hummed, not with the usual underground stillness, but with something electric, like the moment before a storm. "Quinn. Over here." She turned. DS Patel stood near the far wall, his silhouette sharp against the glow of his phone screen. He’d cordoned off a section with police tape that fluttered in the stale breeze, and he was frowning at something on the ground. Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist—*11:47 PM*—and strode toward him, her military bearing cutting through the gloom. "What’ve we got?" she asked. Patel gestured to the body with his chin. "Male, mid-thirties. No ID. Looks like a junkie at first glance—track marks, malnutrition—but the ME’ll confirm. Cause of death? Not so obvious." Quinn crouched, her knees cracking. The victim lay on his side, one arm stretched out as if reaching for something just beyond his fingertips. His skin was waxy, almost translucent, and his lips were parted in a silent scream. But it was his eyes that made her breath catch. They were *gone*. Not gouged out, not decayed—just empty sockets, smooth as river stones, as if they’d never been there at all. "Jesus," she muttered. Patel crossed his arms. "Yeah. Weird, right? But here’s the thing—I’ve seen this before." Quinn looked up. "Where?" "Three years ago. Morris’s case." Her stomach tightened. *Morris.* The name was a blade between her ribs. She stood slowly, brushing dust from her trousers. "You’re sure?" "Positive. Same MO—no eyes, no signs of struggle. Just a body dumped like it was nothing." Patel’s voice was steady, but his fingers twitched at his sides. "I pulled the file. Same location, too. Abandoned station, right? Only back then, it was Aldwych." Quinn’s torch flickered. She tapped it against her palm, and the beam steadied. "Aldwych was sealed off. No access." "Exactly. And yet, there he was." Patel hesitated. "Look, I know you don’t like talking about it, but—" "I don’t *not* like talking about it," Quinn snapped. "I just don’t see the point in rehashing a case that went cold three years ago." Patel held up his hands. "Fine. But this? This isn’t a coincidence. Someone’s copying it. Or worse—someone’s *continuing* it." Quinn exhaled through her nose. She turned back to the body, sweeping her torch over the ground. The platform was littered with the usual detritus—cigarette butts, a crushed energy drink can, a discarded syringe—but nothing that screamed *evidence*. Then her light caught something glinting near the victim’s outstretched hand. She stepped closer, nudging a crumpled fast-food wrapper aside with the toe of her boot. A brass compass, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Its casing was tarnished with verdigris, and the face was etched with strange, looping symbols. The needle didn’t point north. It didn’t move at all. Quinn crouched again, this time pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from her pocket. She picked up the compass, turning it over in her fingers. The metal was cold, too cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer. "Find something?" Patel asked. "Maybe." She held it up. "Recognize this?" Patel squinted. "Looks like a prop from a fantasy movie." Quinn ignored him. The symbols on the compass’s face were familiar, though she couldn’t place why. She’d seen them before—scrawled in the margins of a case file, maybe, or carved into the underside of a desk in the evidence locker. Her pulse quickened. "We need to bag this. And I want a full sweep of the tunnels. If this is connected to Morris, there’ll be something else down here." Patel sighed. "You’re reaching, Quinn. This is Camden. Junkies OD here all the time. The eyes? Could be animals. Rats, foxes—" "Rats don’t leave *smooth* sockets, Patel. And they don’t steal brass compasses with occult symbols on them." She stood, tucking the compass into an evidence bag. "I want the ME to check for traces of alchemical residue. And run the symbols through the database. See if they match anything in the restricted archives." Patel’s eyebrows shot up. "The *what* now?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was already walking toward the ladder, her torch beam cutting through the dark like a blade. The compass weighed heavy in her pocket. She didn’t believe in coincidences. And she *definitely* didn’t believe in rats that left no marks. --- The British Museum’s restricted archives were a labyrinth of locked cabinets and whispered secrets. Quinn had been here once before, years ago, when a case had led her down a rabbit hole of stolen relics and black-market antiquities. She remembered the way the air smelled—old paper and lemon oil—and the way the archivist had looked at her like she was a child asking for the keys to the kingdom. Tonight, the archivist was a different woman. Younger, with round glasses and a mop of curly red hair that kept escaping the clip at the back of her head. She was hunched over a desk, a leather satchel spilling books across the surface, and she didn’t look up when Quinn cleared her throat. "Eva Kowalski?" Quinn asked. The woman startled, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear. "Yes? Oh—Detective Quinn, right? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow." Quinn held up the evidence bag. The compass inside seemed to pulse, though that was probably just the fluorescent lighting. "Change of plans. I need to know what this is." Eva adjusted her glasses, peering at the compass. Her freckles stood out against her sudden pallor. "Where did you find this?" "Camden. Abandoned Tube station." Quinn watched her closely. "You recognize it." Eva swallowed. "It’s a Veil Compass. Attuned to supernatural energy. It points toward the nearest rift or portal." Quinn’s fingers tightened around the bag. "Supernatural." "Not *super*natural, exactly. More like... *parallel* natural." Eva pushed her chair back and stood, crossing to a nearby cabinet. She unlocked it with a key from her pocket and pulled out a slim volume bound in cracked leather. "Here. This is a record of known Veil artifacts. The Compass is on page forty-seven." Quinn took the book, flipping to the marked page. The illustration was crude but unmistakable—a brass compass, its face etched with the same symbols. The text beneath it was dense, academic, but one line jumped out at her: *"Crafted by Shade artisans for navigation between realms. Highly illegal. Possession punishable by—"* She looked up. "Punishable by what?" Eva hesitated. "The Veil Market doesn’t have a *legal* system, Detective. But let’s just say you don’t want to be caught with one of these unless you’re very, *very* sure of what you’re doing." Quinn’s mind raced. The Veil Market. The compass. The body with no eyes. "Where is this market?" Eva’s eyes widened. "You can’t go there. It’s not—it’s not safe. It moves every full moon, and the only way in is with a bone token, and—" "A bone token." Quinn’s voice was flat. "What’s that?" Eva exhaled sharply. "A literal bone. Usually a finger. Carved with specific sigils. They’re... invitations." Quinn thought of the victim’s outstretched hand. Of the way his fingers had been curled, as if he’d been holding something before he died. She thought of Morris, of the way his body had been found in Aldwych, his own hands empty. She tucked the compass back into her pocket. "I need to know more about the Veil Market. And I need to know who’s selling these." Eva was already shaking her head. "I can’t help you with that. I’m a researcher, not a—" "You’re the only one who *can* help me." Quinn stepped closer, her voice low. "Because if this market is real, and if it’s connected to my case, then I need to know what I’m walking into. Before someone else ends up like Morris." Eva’s breath hitched. "Morris? DS Morris?" Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The name hung between them, heavy as a verdict. Eva reached for her satchel, her fingers trembling. "There’s a book. *The Black Market Codex*. It’s not in the archives—it’s in my flat. I can bring it to you tomorrow." Quinn studied her. The nervous habit, the way her eyes darted to the door. She was hiding something. But Quinn had spent eighteen years reading people, and she knew when to push and when to wait. "Tomorrow," she agreed. "But I want everything. No omissions." Eva nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear again. "No omissions." Quinn turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The symbols on the compass. What do they mean?" Eva’s voice was barely a whisper. "Protection. And warning." Quinn’s watch ticked. *12:13 AM.* She left the archives with more questions than answers. But for the first time in three years, she had a lead. And she was going to follow it, no matter where it took her.