Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMK472K121CHNEXPJK4060

The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden reeked of damp concrete and old urine, the kind of stink that clung to the back of the throat and wouldn’t let go. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the beam of her torch, sweeping it across the graffiti-scarred walls of the platform. The air hummed with the low thrum of distant trains, a ghostly reminder of the world above. But down here, the rules were different. She could feel it in the way her pulse quickened, in the prickle of unease along her spine. “You’re late,” a voice called from the shadows. DS Priya Kapoor stepped into the light, her dark eyes sharp beneath the brim of her cap. She held a evidence bag in one gloved hand, the plastic crinkling as she turned it over. Inside was a small brass compass, its face etched with strange, looping symbols. Quinn exhaled through her nose. “Traffic on the North Circular was a nightmare. What’ve we got?” “Male, mid-thirties, no ID. Found him slumped against the wall over there.” Kapoor gestured to a huddled shape beneath a flickering emergency light. The body was half-hidden in the gloom, but Quinn could make out the waxy pallor of the man’s skin, the way his fingers curled into the concrete like he’d been trying to claw his way out. “No obvious signs of trauma. No blood, no defensive wounds. Just… dead.” Quinn crouched beside the body, her torchlight catching the glint of something metallic near the man’s outstretched hand. A bone token, carved with the same sigils as the compass. She didn’t touch it. Not yet. “Tox screen?” “Already sent it off. But I’m telling you, Quinn, this isn’t drugs.” Kapoor’s voice was low, urgent. “Look at his face.” Quinn did. The man’s mouth was frozen in a silent scream, his eyes wide and glassy, the pupils dilated to black pools. But it wasn’t fear she saw there. It was something else. Something like *recognition*. Like he’d seen the thing that killed him and understood, too late, what it was. She stood, brushing dust from her knees. “You said no defensive wounds. But his nails are broken. He was fighting.” “Or trying to dig through the wall.” Kapoor shrugged. “Maybe he was high. Maybe he thought he could tunnel his way out.” Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her attention to the compass in the evidence bag. The needle wasn’t pointing north. It wasn’t pointing at anything. It spun lazily, as if caught in an unfelt breeze. “Where’d you find this?” she asked. “Clutched in his hand. Like he was using it to navigate.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She’d seen enough strange things in her eighteen years on the force to know when something didn’t fit. And this? This was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You run the symbols?” “Yeah. No hits in the usual databases. I was about to send them to the museum, see if their occult division has any ideas.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her wrist, where the leather of her watch strap was worn smooth from years of fidgeting. The museum. The *occult* division. She thought of the last case she’d worked with DS Morris, the way the crime scene photos had shown things that couldn’t be real. The way Morris had looked at her, just before the end, like he’d seen something she hadn’t. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “Not yet.” Kapoor raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a better idea?” Quinn didn’t. But she knew someone who might. --- The British Museum’s restricted archives were a labyrinth of towering shelves and whispered secrets. The air smelled of old paper and lemon oil, the kind of scent that made Quinn’s nose itch. She’d called ahead, and Eva Kowalski was waiting for her in a small reading nook, a stack of leather-bound books at her elbow. Eva’s green eyes flicked up as Quinn approached, her round glasses catching the dim light. “Detective Quinn,” she said, tucking a curl of red hair behind her left ear. “This is a surprise.” Quinn didn’t waste time on pleasantries. She placed the evidence bag on the table between them. “What is this?” Eva’s fingers hovered over the compass, not quite touching the plastic. “Where did you find it?” “Crime scene. Male victim, mid-thirties, no ID. He was holding this when he died.” Eva’s breath hitched. She reached for the bag, then pulled her hand back like it had burned her. “This isn’t just a compass,” she said quietly. “It’s a Veil Compass. It points toward the nearest supernatural rift or portal.” Quinn’s pulse spiked. “Supernatural.” “Yes.” Eva met her eyes. “You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? The things that don’t fit.” Quinn thought of Morris. Of the way his body had been found, twisted in a way that defied physics. Of the way the coroner’s report had listed “unknown causes” in the space where the truth should have been. She didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “What’s the Veil Market?” Eva’s fingers twisted together. “It’s a black market. For things that shouldn’t exist. Enchanted objects, banned substances, information. It moves every full moon, hidden in places like this.” She gestured to the shadows beyond the reading nook, as if the market might be lurking in the stacks. “You need a bone token to get in.” Quinn’s gaze flicked to the dead man’s broken nails. To the token she’d left at the scene, still half-buried in the concrete. Eva leaned forward. “Whoever that man was, he wasn’t just lost. He was *running*. And whatever he was running from, it followed him.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. She thought of the way the compass needle had spun, aimless and unmoored. Like it had lost its way. Like its owner had, too. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I need to get back to the scene.” Eva caught her wrist. “Quinn. Be careful. If the Veil Market is involved, you’re not just dealing with criminals. You’re dealing with things that don’t play by the rules.” Quinn looked down at Eva’s hand, at the freckles dusting her knuckles. She thought of Morris again, of the way he’d laughed the last time they’d worked a case together, his voice warm and rough with too many cigarettes. “I know,” she said. And she did. But that didn’t mean she was going to stop.