Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPADVYF381H8J68KXHXE5W

The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden smelled of damp concrete and something older, something metallic that lingered at the back of Harlow Quinn's throat. Her boots echoed against cracked tiles as she stepped past the yellow police tape, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. The air was thick with the kind of quiet that only existed in places forgotten by time. "Detective." A uniformed officer nodded at her, his face pale under the flickering emergency lights. "Scene's just up ahead. DS Evans is already down there." Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist—a nervous habit she'd picked up after Morris—and moved forward. The platform stretched before her, its edges swallowed by shadows. The remnants of the Veil Market were everywhere: overturned stalls, scattered trinkets, the faint scent of burnt sage. Someone had torn through this place like a storm. Evans stood near the center, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of a single work lamp. He turned as she approached, his expression tight. "Took you long enough." "Traffic," Quinn lied. She'd been three blocks away when the call came in, watching a suspect's flat. The moment she'd heard the location, she'd known it would be trouble. Evans gestured to the body on the ground. "John Doe, mid-thirties. No wallet, no ID. Cause of death looks like blunt force trauma, but..." He trailed off, rubbing his jaw. Quinn crouched beside the corpse. The man's face was unmarked, but his shirt was soaked through with blood. She pulled on gloves and lifted the fabric gently. The wound beneath wasn't from any blunt object she'd ever seen—it was too clean, too precise, the edges blackened as if seared. "Knife?" Evans offered. Quinn shook her head. "No knife does that." She tilted her head, studying the pattern. The skin around the wound was mottled with faint, spiraling marks—sigils, maybe, though she didn't say that out loud. Not yet. Evans sighed. "Look, I know you've got your theories about this place, but let's not overcomplicate it. Gang hit, probably. The Veil Market's got plenty of enemies." Quinn didn't answer. Her gaze drifted to the ground near the body, where something glinted in the lamplight. A small brass compass, its casing weathered with verdigris. She picked it up carefully, turning it over in her palm. The face was etched with symbols she didn't recognize, the needle spinning lazily before settling—not north, but toward the far wall of the station. Evans frowned. "What's that?" "Evidence," she said, slipping it into an evidence bag before he could get a closer look. A noise echoed from the tunnels—a scrape, like metal on stone. Quinn's hand went to her sidearm. Evans stiffened beside her. "You hear that?" She nodded, already moving toward the sound, her flashlight cutting through the dark. The beam caught a figure darting behind a pillar. "Met Police!" Quinn called. "Show yourself!" Silence. Then, a whisper of movement. A young woman stepped into the light, her hands raised. Freckles dotted her nose, her curly red hair half-tucked behind one ear in a nervous gesture. Round glasses reflected the flashlight's glare. "I—I didn't mean to startle you," she stammered. Quinn kept her gun leveled. "Who are you?" "Eva Kowalski. I work at the British Museum. I was just—" Her gaze flicked to the body, then away. "Research." Evans snorted. "At a crime scene?" Eva swallowed. "I heard about the Market. I study occult history. I thought there might be... artifacts." Quinn's grip on the compass tightened. Too convenient. She studied Eva's face—the way her eyes kept darting to the compass, the way her fingers twitched at her sides. "You know what this is?" Eva hesitated. "It's a Veil Compass. It points to supernatural rifts." Evans rolled his eyes. "Christ. Not this again." Quinn ignored him. "And why would someone leave it here?" Eva's voice dropped. "Because they were looking for something. Or running from it." A chill prickled the back of Quinn's neck. She thought of Morris, of the case that had never made sense, of the way the evidence had twisted in on itself until she'd stopped trusting her own notes. Evans clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough ghost stories. Miss Kowalski, you're coming down to the station for questioning. And Quinn—" He shot her a look. "Don't go chasing shadows." Quinn watched as Eva was led away, the girl glancing back once, her green eyes wide with something like warning. The compass in Quinn's pocket felt heavier than it should have. She turned her flashlight toward the far wall, where the needle had pointed. The tiles there were cracked, the mortar between them blackened. And if she looked closely—if she really looked—she could almost see the faintest shimmer in the air, like heat off pavement in summer. The evidence didn't add up. But maybe, just maybe, it was adding up to something worse.