Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN1J1CBYH02Y0RY2B4R93M

The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden 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 off the last rung of the maintenance ladder, her boots hitting the cracked tile with a sharp *click*. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the peeling paint of a sign that read *Camden Town—Mind the Gap* in faded letters. The gap, in this case, wasn’t just between the platform and the tracks. It was between what the evidence said and what her gut screamed. “You’re late,” came a voice from the shadows. DS Priya Kapoor emerged, her dark eyes reflecting the flicker of Quinn’s torch. She held a clipboard, her expression unreadable. “Scene’s been processed. SOCO’s already bagged the obvious.” Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the strap loose enough to slide under her cuff. “What’ve we got?” Priya gestured toward the far end of the platform, where a cluster of white-suited techs moved like ghosts around a slumped figure. “Male, mid-thirties. No ID. Wallet’s gone, but his pockets were turned inside out like someone was looking for something. No signs of a struggle, though. No defensive wounds.” Quinn crouched beside the body, her sharp jaw tightening as she took in the details. The man’s coat was expensive—wool, not the kind you found in high-street shops. His shoes were Italian leather, polished to a mirror shine. And yet, his hands were rough, calloused. A man who worked with them, not just signed checks. “No wallet, but he’s still wearing a watch,” she murmured. “Rolex. That’s not right.” “Maybe the killer was interrupted,” Priya said, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Or maybe they didn’t care about the watch. Too flashy to fence, maybe.” Quinn’s torch beam caught something glinting near the man’s outstretched fingers. She reached for it, her gloved hand brushing against the cold tile. A small brass compass, its face etched with strange, looping symbols. The needle didn’t point north. It didn’t point at all—it spun lazily, as if drunk. “What the hell is this?” Priya leaned in, her brow furrowing. “No idea. But look at this.” She nudged the man’s sleeve up with the end of her pen. A tattoo peeked out—an intricate design of a serpent coiled around a dagger, the ink so fresh it still glistened. “Recent. And not the kind of thing you get on a drunken night out.” Quinn’s pulse kicked up a notch. She’d seen that symbol before. Not in any police database, not in any gang files. But in the margins of a case file three years old, the one that had gotten DS Morris killed. The one she’d buried in a box under her bed. She stood abruptly, her torch beam sweeping the platform. The station was too clean. No graffiti, no discarded needles, no broken bottles. Just dust and the faint, acrid tang of something that didn’t belong—like ozone after a storm. “This isn’t a robbery,” she said. “This is a message.” Priya exhaled through her nose. “You’re reaching, Quinn. No signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Just a dead guy in an abandoned Tube station. Probably a drug deal gone wrong.” “Then where’s the product?” Quinn countered. “Where’s the cash? And why take the wallet but leave the watch?” She turned the compass over in her hand, the verdigris patina flaking under her fingers. The symbols on the face weren’t random. They were protective. Wards. “This isn’t street-level stuff, Priya. This is something else.” Priya’s expression darkened. “You’re still on that supernatural kick? After what happened with Morris?” Quinn’s fingers tightened around the compass. The metal was cold, too cold, like it had been pulled from a freezer. “Morris didn’t fall down a flight of stairs. He was *pushed*. And whatever pushed him left marks on the walls. Marks that weren’t there the next day.” “You saw what you wanted to see,” Priya said, her voice low. “Grief does that. It warps things.” Quinn ignored her. The compass’s needle had stilled, pointing toward the far wall of the platform. She followed its direction, her torch beam cutting through the dark. The tiles there were newer, cleaner. And in the center of the wall, almost invisible unless you were looking for it, was a crack. Not a structural fissure—this was deliberate. A seam, like a door. She pressed her palm against it. The tile gave way with a soft *click*, swinging inward on hidden hinges. Priya grabbed her arm. “Quinn, don’t—” The space beyond was a tunnel, but not one built by human hands. The walls pulsed with a faint, sickly light, like bioluminescent algae. The air smelled of wet earth and something older, something that made the hairs on the back of Quinn’s neck stand on end. And at the far end of the tunnel, just visible in the gloom, was a market. Stalls lined the walls, their wares glowing with an eerie luminescence. A woman with too many teeth offered vials of swirling liquid. A man in a moth-eaten coat displayed rows of teeth—human, animal, something in between. And in the center of it all, a figure in a long, tattered coat turned toward them, their face obscured by a mask of bone. Quinn’s breath came fast. She knew this place. Had heard whispers of it in the dark corners of the Met, in the hushed conversations of officers who’d seen things they couldn’t explain. The Veil Market. A black market for the things that went bump in the night. Priya’s grip on her arm tightened. “What the *fuck*, Quinn?” The compass in Quinn’s hand burned suddenly, searing her palm. She hissed, dropping it. The needle spun wildly, then stilled, pointing directly at the bone-masked figure. Who raised one gloved hand and beckoned. Quinn took a step back. “We need to go. Now.” Priya didn’t argue. They turned and ran, the hidden door swinging shut behind them with a final, echoing *thud*. The abandoned Tube station was just that again—abandoned. Normal. Safe. But Quinn’s hand still burned where the compass had touched her. And the symbols on its face had begun to glow.