Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN3SV6AW5GXVJNZNKMHX55

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and something older, something like rusted iron left too long in the rain. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots silent on the cracked tile. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the graffiti-scarred walls of the Camden underpass. It wasn’t just any underpass—this was a place the city had forgotten, a place where the air hummed with the wrong kind of energy. “You’re late,” said DS Patel, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He stood near a makeshift stall, its wooden counter sagging under the weight of empty glass vials and a scattering of blackened coins. His torchlight flickered over a body sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Quinn adjusted the worn leather strap of her watch, the second hand ticking too loud in the silence. “Traffic on the North Circular was a nightmare. What’ve we got?” Patel exhaled through his nose. “Male, mid-thirties. No ID. Cause of death looks like a heart attack, but—” He gestured to the body. “Look at his hands.” Quinn crouched, her knees protesting the movement. The victim’s fingers were curled into claws, the skin stretched tight over the knuckles. Not the relaxed grip of a man who’d simply collapsed. She reached into her pocket for a pair of nitrile gloves, snapping them on with practiced precision. “Rigor’s already setting in. That’s fast.” “Exactly. And his pupils—dilated like he saw something right before he died.” Quinn’s torchlight caught the glint of something metallic near the body’s outstretched hand. A small brass compass, its face etched with strange symbols. She picked it up, turning it over in her palm. The needle spun wildly, then stilled, pointing toward the far wall. “That’s not standard issue,” Patel said. “No,” Quinn murmured. “It’s not.” She’d seen enough oddities in her time on the force to know when something didn’t belong. The compass had a patina of verdigris, like it had been pulled from a shipwreck, but the etchings on its face were too precise, too deliberate. Protective sigils, maybe. Or something else. She stood, her gaze sweeping over the stall. The empty vials, the coins—none of it looked like the usual drug paraphernalia. “This isn’t a dealer’s setup. This is a market.” Patel frowned. “A market? Down here?” “Not the kind you’re thinking of.” Quinn’s torchlight flickered over a symbol carved into the stall’s wooden leg—a circle with three intersecting lines. She’d seen it before, in a case file from three years ago. The Morris case. The one that had left her with more questions than answers. “You’re saying this is some kind of black market?” Patel’s skepticism was thick enough to cut with a knife. “Not black. *Hidden.*” Quinn pocketed the compass. “This place isn’t on any city records. No permits, no inspections. And yet, someone’s been using it. Regularly.” Patel crossed his arms. “You’re reaching, Quinn. Guy probably had a bad batch of something. Heart gave out. End of story.” Quinn ignored him, stepping closer to the body. The victim’s shirt was torn at the collar, revealing a faint mark on his skin—a bruise in the shape of a handprint. Not fresh. Days old, maybe. She’d seen marks like that before, too. On Morris. “You’re not listening,” she said. “This isn’t a drug overdose. It’s not even a murder. Not in the way we understand it.” Patel scoffed. “Then what is it?” Quinn’s torchlight caught something else—a scrap of paper tucked beneath the stall. She pulled it free, unfolding it carefully. The paper was brittle, yellowed with age, and covered in the same strange symbols as the compass. But one word stood out, written in smudged ink: *Veil.* “It’s an invitation,” she said quietly. Patel leaned in, squinting at the paper. “To what?” Quinn’s pulse quickened. She knew what it was. Or at least, she knew what it *could* be. The Veil Market. A place whispered about in the darker corners of the city, where things were bought and sold that shouldn’t exist. Where people went in and didn’t come out. She’d been chasing it for years. “Something we’re not supposed to see,” she said. Patel shook his head. “You’re talking like this is some kind of supernatural crime scene. That’s not how this works, Quinn. We deal in facts. Evidence. Not ghost stories.” Quinn turned the compass over in her hand again. The needle still pointed toward the wall. “Then explain this.” Patel opened his mouth, then closed it. “It’s a compass. It points north.” “Not this one.” Quinn held it up, watching the needle spin lazily before locking onto the same spot. “It points *there.*” Patel followed her gaze to the far wall, where the tiles were cracked and discolored, as if something had pressed against them from the other side. “That’s just a wall.” “Is it?” Quinn stepped closer, running her fingers over the tiles. The surface was cold, unnaturally so, and the air near it hummed with a low, almost imperceptible vibration. She pressed her palm against the wall. The stone gave way slightly, like wet clay. Patel’s torchlight wavered. “What the hell—?” Quinn pulled her hand back. The imprint of her fingers remained, slowly filling in like a wound healing. “It’s a door,” she said. “Or it was.” Patel’s skepticism was crumbling. “You’re saying this place is some kind of… what? Portal?” “Not a portal. A *rift.*” Quinn’s mind raced. The compass, the symbols, the body—it all fit. The Veil Market moved with the full moon, and tonight was the night. She’d been so close, three years ago, before Morris had— She cut the thought off. Not now. “This isn’t our jurisdiction,” Patel said, but his voice lacked conviction. Quinn pocketed the compass and the scrap of paper. “It is now.” She turned back to the body, her torchlight catching the glint of something else—a small bone token, half-buried beneath the victim’s sleeve. She pulled it free, holding it up to the light. It was carved with the same symbols as the compass, the edges worn smooth from handling. “What’s that?” Patel asked. Quinn’s jaw tightened. “A key.” Patel exhaled sharply. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was already moving, her torchlight cutting through the darkness as she followed the compass’s unerring point. The wall loomed ahead, the air growing colder with each step. She could feel it—the pull of something beyond, something that didn’t belong in the world she knew. She stopped just short of the wall, her breath misting in the cold. The compass’s needle trembled, then stilled. “Quinn,” Patel said, his voice tight. “What are you doing?” She didn’t look back. “My job.” And then she stepped forward. The wall gave way like water.