Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPCK1Y9S5SP9YC20XQ5FH9

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the last rusting step and into the cool, stale air of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Her footsteps echoed around her, bouncing off the tiled walls and metal railings with a hollow, lonely sound that matched the hollow ache in her chest. Military precision colored every inch of her bearing, from her sharp jaw set in determination to her eyes scanning the station's filthy corners for any sign of the evidence she needed. Just beyond the platform edge, where the tracks disappeared into a yawning tunnel, a labyrinth of stalls and cobbled-together shops sprawled out. The Veil Market. Row upon row of rickety tables overflowing with trinkets and oddities that would make a banshee cackle with delight—or scream in terror. Harlow had been here before, under less dire circumstances. Tonight, it felt different. Charged. The air was filled with an acrid, almost burnt scent that turned her already steely gut into knots. DS Eva Kowalski stood near an improvised barricade made of rotting barrels and old, graffitied signs. The younger detective adjusted her round glasses with one hand, the other resting nervously on the worn leather strap of her satchel. Locks of curly red hair slipped from behind her ear as she stroked it back repeatedly—a nervous habit Harlow had noticed many times before. “Detective Quinn,” Eva called out, voice tight. “You’d better see this.” Harlow's eyes narrowed as she approached, her boots crunching on the scattered detritus. She focused on the scene Eva pointed to. Sprawled on the ground, amid a scattering of alchemical tools and half-used candles, was what remained of Gregor Saadi. Gregor, one of the Market’s many peddlers of enchanted baubles and whisperer of hidden knowledge, lay lifeless and twisted at an unnatural angle. His mouth was open in what should have been a scream, but no sound emerged when he died; there was only silence. Blood pooled around him, the dark stains marred with odd symbols that Harlow did not recognize. Her brown eyes flickered to Eva, who was chewing her lower lip. “What happened?” Harlow’s voice was a controlled burn of urgency, masked by her usual calm demeanor. “Witnesses say there was no scream, just a burst of light,” Eva replied, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. “They took off running before anyone saw who—or what—did this.” Harlow crouched down beside Gregor's body and examined the scene more closely. Gregor’s right hand clenched tightly around an object—a brass compass with a face etched in protective sigils. The verdigris patina on the casing caught the dim light as she pried it from his grasp, careful not to disturb the scene more than necessary. The needle, she noticed, was spinning wildly as though the entire Station was awash in supernatural energy. “The Veil Compass,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “This thing points to supernatural rifts or portals.” Eva nodded, her expression clouded. “Doesn’t make sense, though. The Compass is supposed to provide clarity, a direction. But this—” she gestured vaguely, “it’s as if everything here is deliberately obscured.” Harlow rose, clutching the Compass. “You think it has something to do with the Market’s schedule? That it moves every full moon?” “Maybe,” Eva said, chewing her lip again. “Or it could mean the veil between our world and another is breaking down.” The Market was bustling as usual despite Gregor's lifeless form. Harlow looked around, scanning for anything that seemed out of place. The eclectic mix of supernatural color and mundane detritus made it difficult to pinpoint a disturbance when everything already seemed chaotic. She noted the stall adjacent to Gregor’s, a shady setup with dusty trinkets and ancient scrolls. She moved closer and inspected something gleaming faintly in the low light. It was another compass, identical to the one Gregor clutched except this one had a crack running through its face. She glanced up at the stall owner, a gaunt figure with hollow eyes hidden beneath a hood. “You carry these?” Harlow asked, holding up the cracked compass. “Rarely,” the man croaked. “Crafted by Shadewalkers. Valuable. Dangerous.” “Why dangerous?” Harlow pressed. “Draws attention. They can pull unwanted things through if not used carefully,” he said, voice gravelly and barely above a whisper. Harlow exchanged a glance with Eva, who looked no less uneasy. She kept the cracked compass with her as they carefully retraced their steps to the crime scene. Something nagged at her—the odd charring around the blood; the missing scream. It wasn't the Veil Compass alone at fault here. “Eva, get a hold of Forensics,” Harlow instructed, beckoning the younger detective to step back from the perimeter. “We’re missing something here. The symbols—” she moved her hand over the dark stains, “they’re part of a sealing ritual, I think. Or a botched one.” Eva nodded, already talking into her radio. “Do you think Gregor was trying to close a portal? Or open one?” “Both,” Harlow muttered, squinting at the symbols. “But the crux of it is, he thought he had control. These sigils, however, are off.” Eva returned after a brief exchange. “They’re sending a team down, but it’ll take at least twenty minutes. Traffic’s hell out there.” Harlow glanced at the brass compass again, calculating. Something about this entire scene made her skin crawl, more than the abandoned Station and the Veil Market’s inherent creep would explain. She activated her tablet and took quick photographs, sending them to the department’s occult evaluator, hoping for a break. “Do you trust anyone here?” Harlow asked Eva, her tone cold and cutting. “Not particularly,” Eva replied, finally shouldering her satchel and tucking her hair back. “Keep your eyes peeled. Someone erased their tracks well, which means they knew what they were doing. This place isn’t just a black market and carnival show—it's a dangerous game.” Eva nodded, her demeanor changing, becoming less the nervous academic and more the vigilant officer. They continued to scan the surroundings, suddenly aware of the veiled eyes watching them from shadowy alcoves and behind fluttering stall curtains. Minutes ticked by in tense silence before the Forensics team arrived, cutting through what had morphed from a market buzz to a nearly still, eerie quiet. The scene buzzed to life with activity, but Harlow's mind stayed on the cold, professional edge. She moved among the stalls with a sense of urgency, speaking to some of the other Market peddlers while keeping an eye on Eva, who’d found an alcove full of spectral scrolls and archaic books. Finally, a clue came to fruition—a vendor selling arcane tomes mentioned seeing Gregor in a heated argument with a figure cloaked in shadow moments before the light burst. Harlow pieced it together—Gregor had tried to use the Veil Compass to seal a rift but was interrupted. An interplanar breach occurred, one far beyond any simple market squabble. It hinted at a larger conspiracy—one involving advanced knowledge of the Veil and the supernatural energies bound within the Market. As they wrapped up their immediate findings, Eva moved closer, her hand nervously tucking her hair back one final time for the night. “What’s the call now?” she asked in a tone that mingled with trepidation and expectation. “We dig deeper,” Harlow replied, her jaw tightening. “Whoever killed Gregor had more at stake. We’re returning to the office, going over every scrap of evidence. Gregor might have been a bystander—or maybe he knew too much.” Eva nodded, eyes reflecting green determination behind her glasses. “And the Market?” “We watch. We listen. Full moon’s close, meaning it’ll move. We need to find out where, and we need to understand exactly what power players are involved,” Harlow said, her voice an ironclad promise. “No more unexplained deaths on my watch.” As they stepped away, leaving the Forensics team to their work, Harlow felt the weight of DS Morris’s absence. This was the kind of puzzle that had taken him three years ago, left questions in its wake. But this time, she wouldn’t be blindsided. The brass compass rested cold in her pocket, its needle finally still.