Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMQ625G2T5WHRHC4XS3HZV

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots sinking slightly into the grime-coated platform. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the peeling posters of long-forgotten plays and the skeletal remains of a ticket booth. Somewhere above, the hum of Camden’s nightlife pulsed like a distant heartbeat, but down here, the world was still. Too still. “You’re late,” a voice said from the shadows. DS Priya Kapoor emerged, her dark eyes sharp beneath the brim of her cap. She held a clipboard, her gloved fingers tapping against the metal edge. “Thought you’d want to see this before Forensics tramples all over it.” Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist, the second hand ticking like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. “What’ve we got?” Kapoor gestured toward the far end of the platform, where a cluster of uniformed officers stood in a loose semicircle. Their torches converged on a single point—a body, sprawled face-down near the edge of the tracks. The victim was male, mid-thirties, dressed in a rumpled suit that had seen better days. His left hand was outstretched, fingers curled as if he’d been reaching for something. Quinn crouched beside him, her knees protesting the movement. The man’s skin was pale, almost waxen, but there were no visible wounds. No blood. No signs of a struggle. She shone her torch along the tracks, the beam catching on something metallic half-buried in the gravel. “What’s that?” she asked. Kapoor squinted. “Looks like a coin. Or a token.” Quinn reached for it, then hesitated. “Bag it. We’ll check it against the database.” “Already did.” Kapoor flipped a page on her clipboard. “No hits. But get this—there’s no ID on the victim. No wallet, no phone, nothing. Just that token and this.” She held up an evidence bag containing a small brass compass, its face etched with strange, looping symbols. The needle inside spun lazily, as if caught in a draft. Quinn took the bag, turning it over in her hands. The metal was cold, despite the stifling heat of the tunnel. “This isn’t standard issue.” “No kidding. And look at the back.” Kapoor pointed to a series of scratches near the hinge. “Someone tried to pry it open. Probably thought it was worth something.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She’d seen enough oddities in her eighteen years on the force to know when something didn’t fit. “Cause of death?” “Coroner’s on his way, but my money’s on cardiac arrest. No external trauma, no signs of poisoning. Just… dead.” Quinn stood, her torch beam sweeping over the platform again. The walls were covered in graffiti—tags, mostly, but near the body, someone had scrawled a symbol in what looked like chalk. A circle with a jagged line through it, like a broken wheel. She’d seen it before. Three years ago. On the wall of the alley where DS Morris had died. Her breath hitched. “You okay?” Kapoor asked. Quinn forced a nod. “Fine. Just… this place. It’s giving me the creeps.” Kapoor snorted. “You? The woman who laughs at horror films? Since when do you get the creeps?” Since the night Morris died, Quinn thought. Since the night the shadows moved when they shouldn’t have. Since the night she’d sworn she heard something whispering her name. She crouched again, this time closer to the symbol. The chalk was fresh, the edges still sharp. “This wasn’t here when we arrived.” “What?” “Look at the dust. The rest of the graffiti’s been here a while. This is new.” Kapoor frowned. “So someone drew it after the body was found? That’s… bold.” “Or stupid.” Quinn stood, her torch flickering as the batteries began to die. “Who called it in?” “Anonymous tip. Male voice, sounded young. Said there was a body in the old Camden Tube station.” Quinn’s gaze drifted to the token again. “And no one thought it was weird that he knew exactly where to find it?” Kapoor shrugged. “Kid probably hangs out down here. You know how it is—urban explorers, junkies, kids looking for a place to drink. This place is a magnet for trouble.” Quinn didn’t answer. Her torch died with a final, sputtering flicker, plunging them into near-darkness. The emergency lights strung up by the uniforms cast long, wavering shadows across the platform. For a second, she thought she saw something move in the tunnel—a flicker of movement, like a figure stepping back into the dark. “You see that?” she asked quietly. Kapoor followed her gaze. “See what?” Quinn exhaled. “Nothing. Just the light playing tricks.” But it wasn’t the light. She knew it wasn’t. She turned back to the body, her mind racing. No ID. No cause of death. A strange compass. A symbol she’d seen before. And a token that didn’t exist in any database. This wasn’t a murder. It was a message. And she was the only one who seemed to be getting it. --- The coroner arrived an hour later, his face pinched with irritation at being called out so late. He knelt beside the body, his gloved hands probing the victim’s neck, wrists, chest. “No rigor yet,” he muttered. “Time of death within the last two hours, maybe less.” Quinn crossed her arms. “Any idea what killed him?” The coroner shook his head. “Not yet. But I’ll run tox screens, see if there’s anything in his system.” “Do that.” Quinn turned to Kapoor. “I want CCTV from the nearest stations. Camden, Chalk Farm, Mornington Crescent. Someone had to have seen him.” Kapoor made a note. “On it.” Quinn’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, frowning at the screen. Unknown number. She answered. “Quinn.” Silence. Then, a whisper: *“You’re looking in the wrong place.”* The line went dead. She stared at the phone, her pulse hammering in her throat. “Quinn?” Kapoor was watching her, concern etched into her features. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Quinn forced a laugh. “Just tired. Long day.” But she wasn’t tired. She was afraid. Because she knew that voice. And she knew what it meant. --- Back at the station, Quinn locked herself in her office, the compass in its evidence bag sitting on her desk like a grenade with the pin pulled. She booted up her computer, pulling up the case files from three years ago. Morris’s case. The one that had never been solved. The symbol was there, too. Scrawled on the wall of the alley where he’d died. Just like this one. She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. The coroner’s preliminary report had come in. No toxins in the victim’s system. No signs of heart disease. No explanation for why a healthy man in his thirties had dropped dead on an abandoned Tube platform. Her phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. This time, a text: *Check the compass.* Quinn’s fingers hovered over the screen. She didn’t reply. Instead, she grabbed the evidence bag and carried it to the lab. The technician on duty, a wiry man named Finch, took one look at it and whistled. “Where’d you get this?” “Crime scene. Why?” Finch turned it over in his hands, his eyes gleaming. “This isn’t just a compass. Look at the etchings. Those are protective sigils. Warding spells.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. “What?” “Yeah. And the needle—it’s not pointing north. It’s pointing *there*.” He tapped the glass. The needle had stilled, pointing directly at the wall. At the station’s evidence locker. Quinn’s breath came fast. “What the hell is it pointing at?” Finch shrugged. “No idea. But whatever it is, it’s not natural.” Quinn took the compass back, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. “Thanks, Finch.” She left the lab, the compass burning a hole in her palm. She knew where she had to go next. The Veil Market. And she knew who she had to find. --- Eva Kowalski’s flat was above a bookshop in Bloomsbury, the kind of place that smelled of old paper and Earl Grey tea. Quinn knocked, her knuckles rapping against the peeling paint of the door. Eva answered, her round glasses slipping down her nose. She blinked at Quinn, then at the compass in her hand. “Detective Quinn. This is… unexpected.” Quinn didn’t waste time. “I need your help.” Eva hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in.” The flat was cluttered with books—stacks of them on the floor, on the sofa, on the coffee table. A leather satchel bulging with more volumes sat by the door. Eva pushed a pile of papers off a chair, gesturing for Quinn to sit. Quinn didn’t. She held out the compass. “What is this?” Eva took it, her fingers tracing the sigils. “Where did you get this?” “Crime scene. A man died holding it.” Eva’s face paled. “Oh.” “Oh?” Quinn’s voice was sharp. “That’s all you’ve got?” Eva set the compass down, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. “It’s a Veil Compass. It points to the nearest supernatural rift or portal.” Quinn’s pulse spiked. “Supernatural.” Eva nodded. “Yes. And if someone died holding it…” She trailed off, her green eyes dark with worry. Quinn’s hands clenched into fists. “Tell me about the Veil Market.” Eva’s breath hitched. “You know about the Market?” “I know it’s where this compass came from. And I know it’s where I need to go.” Eva shook her head. “You can’t. It’s not safe. Not for someone who doesn’t know the rules.” Quinn stepped closer, her voice low. “I don’t care about the rules. A man is dead. And I think it’s connected to something bigger. Something that got my partner killed three years ago.” Eva’s eyes widened. “Morris?” Quinn nodded. “I need to know what’s really going on. And I need to know *now*.” Eva exhaled, her fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel. “Alright. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.” Quinn didn’t argue. She was out of options.