Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMKFP388B0PDNK6QM5R2WP

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp stone and old iron, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the last rung of the rusted maintenance ladder, her boots hitting the cracked tile with a sharp *clack*. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the peeling posters of long-forgotten plays and the skeletal remains of turnstiles, their metal teeth gnawed by time. Somewhere in the dark, water dripped. "Quinn," came a voice from deeper in the tunnel. DS Patel emerged from the shadows, his face half-lit by the sickly yellow glow of a portable lamp. He was young, too young for the lines already creasing his forehead, and he held a clipboard like it was a shield. "You’re late. Scene’s been compromised." Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the body. It lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, as if the man had been dropped from a great height. His suit was expensive—charcoal wool, tailored—but the fabric was torn at the shoulder, the edges blackened as if singed. His face was frozen in an expression of sheer, unadulterated terror, mouth stretched wide enough to dislocate his jaw. The left side of his skull was caved in, but there was no blood. Not a drop. "Victim’s name’s Daniel Reeves," Patel said, flipping a page on his clipboard. "Forty-two, hedge fund manager. No priors, no known enemies. Wife reported him missing last night after he didn’t come home from a ‘business dinner.’" He made air quotes with his free hand. "Uniforms found his car parked up on Camden High Street. Keys still in the ignition." Quinn crouched, careful not to touch anything. The man’s fingers were curled into claws, nails broken and caked with dirt. She shone her torch along the tracks, following the scuff marks in the dust. "He ran." Patel exhaled through his nose. "Or he was dragged." "No." Quinn stood, brushing her palms against her trousers. "Look at the pattern. He’s stumbling, not being pulled. And the way his shoes are scuffed—he was moving fast, panicked. He didn’t just wander down here." "Fine. So he runs. Maybe he’s high. Maybe he’s having a psychotic break. Then he trips, hits his head, and—" "And what? His skull caves in like a rotten melon, but there’s no blood?" Quinn’s torch flickered over the body again. The man’s tie was still knotted, his cufflinks in place. "This wasn’t an accident. And it wasn’t a mugging." Patel shifted his weight. "You’re reaching." "Am I?" She turned, sweeping the beam of light across the station’s walls. The tiles here were different—older, their edges sharper, the grout stained with something darker than grime. And then there were the symbols. Faint, almost worn away, but unmistakable if you knew what to look for. A circle bisected by a jagged line. A crescent moon cradling a star. Her torch trembled. Patel followed her gaze. "Graffiti. Kids get down here all the time." "Not this kind." Quinn stepped closer, her pulse thudding in her throat. The symbols were arranged in a rough spiral, converging on a point just above the body’s outstretched hand. "This is a ward. A containment circle." Patel was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You’re saying this was some kind of… ritual?" "I’m saying it’s not natural." Quinn’s voice was steel. She knelt again, this time reaching into her coat pocket for a pair of nitrile gloves. The man’s jacket had fallen open, revealing a breast pocket. Inside, something glinted. She pinched the edge of a card between two fingers and pulled it free. It was a business card, but not for any firm she recognized. The paper was thick, almost velvety, and the ink was raised, as if embossed. On one side, a single word in elegant script: *Veil*. On the other, an address—*Camden, beneath the old arches*—and a time: *Midnight, every full moon*. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She knew that name. Had heard it whispered in the dark corners of the station, in the hushed voices of informants who clammed up the second she pressed too hard. The Veil Market. A black market for things that shouldn’t exist. Patel leaned in. "What’s that?" "Nothing." She tucked the card into an evidence bag. "Just a lead." Patel wasn’t buying it. "Quinn. You’re not seriously suggesting this is—what, occult? Supernatural?" She stood, stripping off the gloves. "I’m suggesting we don’t know what the hell this is. And until we do, we treat it like a homicide. Properly." Patel rubbed his temples. "You’re going to get us both sectioned." Quinn ignored him. Her torch beam caught on something half-buried in the dirt near the tracks—a small, brass object, its surface dull with verdigris. She picked it up, turning it over in her palm. A compass. But the needle wasn’t pointing north. It was spinning, slow and erratic, as if caught in an unseen current. Patel frowned. "What’s that do?" Quinn’s breath hitched. The compass’s face was etched with symbols—tiny, intricate sigils that made her eyes ache if she looked at them too long. She snapped it shut. "Nothing. Just junk." But it wasn’t junk. She knew that much. And if the Veil Market was involved, then this wasn’t just a murder. It was an invitation. She pocketed the compass, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. Three years. Three years since Morris had vanished during that raid, his last words crackling over the radio: *"Quinn, there’s something in the walls—"* Static. Then silence. The case had been closed—officially, at least. But Quinn had never stopped digging. And now, here she was. Standing in the dark, with a dead man at her feet and a compass burning a hole in her pocket. Patel was watching her, his expression unreadable. "You’re not telling me everything." Quinn met his gaze. "No. I’m not." She turned back to the body, her torch flickering. The symbols on the wall seemed to pulse in the dark. Somewhere beneath Camden, something was waking up. And she was going to find out what.