Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMGTEDZMRNRWQVDKP45SYA

Detective Harlow Quinn crouched beside the body, her knees creaking in protest against the damp concrete. The abandoned Tube platform hadn't seen passengers in decades, but tonight it had an audience. Blue police lights filtered down through the street grates far above, casting strange shadows that danced across the curved walls. The victim lay spread-eagled, facing up, his unseeing eyes fixed on the arched ceiling. No blood, no signs of struggle. Just a middle-aged man in an expensive suit who looked like he'd decided to take a nap in one of London's forgotten places. Quinn's torch beam caught something brass glinting in his half-closed fist. "Cause of death appears to be cardiac arrest," Detective Sergeant Martinez said from behind her, consulting his notebook. "No obvious trauma. Given the location, probably a homeless person who managed to find his way down here. Though the suit's throwing me off—might be stolen." Quinn didn't respond immediately. She studied the victim's manicured nails, the fresh shine on his Oxford shoes, the precise dimple still visible in his silk tie. Her worn leather watch ticked steadily as she cataloged each detail, each incongruity. "Those shoes have barely a scuff on them," she said finally. "If he walked down here through all this grime and rubble, they'd show it." She swept her torch beam across the floor, highlighting decades of dirt and debris. "And look at this dust pattern around the body. No footprints leading up to where he's lying. It's like—" she paused, frowning, "—like he just appeared here." Martinez shifted uncomfortably. "People don't just appear out of nowhere, Quinn. He had to get here somehow." "Did he?" Quinn stood, her movements precise despite hours into their shift. "Check his pockets. I bet you won't find an Oyster card or any tube tickets. No phone either, I'd wager." As Martinez bent to search the body, Quinn's attention was drawn to movement near the old ticket booth. A flash of red hair, quickly withdrawn. She kept her face neutral, but her pulse quickened. She'd seen that particular shade of curly red hair before, usually accompanied by round glasses and a worn leather satchel. "Nothing," Martinez confirmed, straightening up. "Just this weird compass thing he was holding. Face is all scratched up with some kind of symbols." Quinn's jaw tightened. "Bag it for evidence." She walked a careful circle around the body, her torch beam revealing more oddities. The dust was disturbed in a perfect circle around the victim, as if he'd been dropped there by some giant hand. And there was something else—a faint smell she couldn't quite place, like ozone and old books. She'd smelled it before, three years ago, the night she lost Morris. "I want the full works," she announced. "Forensics, detailed photos, samples of everything. And I want to know if there have been any other bodies found in abandoned stations in the past six months." "You think this is connected to something bigger?" Quinn's brown eyes narrowed as she caught another glimpse of movement, this time near the old emergency exit. Eva Kowalski was definitely here, watching. The question was why. "Everything's connected if you know where to look," Quinn said quietly. She glanced at her watch—just past midnight. The full moon would be tomorrow night. If her suspicions were correct, the Veil Market would be moving locations soon. And this body, with its pristine clothes and mysterious compass, had something to do with it. She remembered the last time she'd tried to investigate the Market. Morris had laughed at her theories about supernatural black markets operating in abandoned Tube stations. Then he'd disappeared during a routine patrol, leaving nothing but his badge and that same sharp smell of ozone. "Get started on the scene," she told Martinez. "I need to check something." She walked purposefully toward the emergency exit, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Eva Kowalski might be young and nervous—always tucking that red hair behind her left ear when she was anxious—but she knew something about this death. The question was whether she'd talk, or if she'd disappear into the shadows like all the other leads Quinn had chased over the years. The brass compass in the evidence bag seemed to gleam of its own accord, its needle spinning wildly, pointing to something that shouldn't exist. Quinn had seen enough impossible things in her career to know one truth: sometimes the evidence didn't add up because they were using the wrong kind of math entirely. She flexed her hand, feeling the old burn scar across her palm—another souvenir from the night Morris vanished. Tomorrow night, she'd find answers. Either at the Veil Market, or from Eva Kowalski herself. After eighteen years on the force, Quinn knew when a case was more than it appeared to be. And this one reeked of the impossible. Behind her, Martinez called out something about finding traces of an unknown substance, but Quinn barely heard him. She was already moving toward the emergency exit, following the echo of hurried footsteps and the ghost of freckles disappearing into shadow. Sometimes solving a mystery wasn't about what you could see—it was about what you couldn't explain away.