Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPF0V834W498PEEV5CE6W6

The air inside the abandoned Tube station clung to Harlow Quinn like a second skin, heavy and damp with the scent of mold and stale moisture. It was the kind of place that thrived on silence, a forgotten corner of London now cracked and crumbling, but still pulsing with a kind of dark energy. Quinn stood at the mouth of the old platform, her sharp brown eyes scanning the scene before her. Broken tiles crunched beneath her polished boots, but she paid the noise no mind; she had been trained to focus through the distractions. A flickering overhead light cast an unsettling glow over the area, illuminating the shadows that sprawled like long fingers reaching for the past. Quinn's keen instincts told her something was off. She pulled the worn leather watch from her wrist, glancing discreetly at the time. Only minutes had passed since the call came through about the body discovered here, deep beneath the pulsating veins of the city. The victim lay sprawled on the cold concrete, pale against the darkness—a young man, perhaps in his thirties, dressed in a jacket too expensive for this wasteland. Blood pooled underneath him, black in the unforgiving light, but the wound itself seemed clean, devoid of the usual chaos that would mark a struggle. A glimmer caught her eye, and she moved closer, careful to avoid disturbing the scene. Beside the body, a small brass compass lay nestled in a hand that wouldn’t clasp it anymore, its face etched with sigils she recognized all too well. “Detective Quinn,” a voice called softly, pulling her gaze away from the grisly sight. She turned to find her colleague, Officer Smith, crouched nearby, his sandy hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was a good officer, but his knack for leaning towards the supernatural sometimes clouded his judgment. “I think I’ve got something,” he continued, gesturing towards the body. “Look at the compass. The sigils—I've seen those before.” Quinn’s brow furrowed. She didn’t need a reminder of what she was looking at. “This isn’t a crime of magic, Smith. The wound is too clean.” “No, that’s just it,” he pressed, standing and shifting his weight. “It suggests something else entirely. The kind of signature you’d find in the Veil Market. You know there are rumors—some say it's an entry point.” Her jaw tightened. The Veil Market, with its whispers of black magic and enchantments. She knew it well — hidden and transitory, moving with the full moons beneath the streets of London. “Or it could be a simple—and very human—murder. This won't help us with the case.” “But... the body. It’s not just a regular murder,” he persisted. “There’s something more to it. The blood, the compass, the location— all of it points to something unnatural.” Quinn couldn’t shake the feeling that there was truth in his words, but the logic still slipped through her fingers like smoke. She focused on the details — the finer points. “What do we know about him?” “He’s a local bartender, popular in the area. Had some odd acquaintances,” Smith said, pulling out his notebook. “And he was last reported seen at The Veil Market less than a week ago. You know, I heard he’d been asking about some rare alchemical substances.” Quinn rolled her shoulders, suppressing the wariness inching its way up her spine. Alchemy. Magical substances. Those were all linked to the occult. But the clean cut of the death weighed heavily on her. Though another piece slipped into place, she stepped back from the body, allowing her gaze to roam the station. Grey walls whispered secrets she had yet to decode. It was here, in this cramped, underground realm, that the usual rules began to warp. “Look at the pockmarked walls,” Quinn said suddenly, pointing. “They’re chipped, but with something like a ritualistic pattern.” Smith squinted at the wall, nodding slowly. “That could be connected to the other reports we’ve gotten. You think he got too deep with the wrong people?” “Maybe,” Quinn conceded. “But the message is unclear. If he was killed over something he owed, there would be signs of a struggle. There’s no sign of a fight.” “Except the compass. Isn’t that a sign?” He stepped aside, giving Quinn room to peer closer at the object. “It’s a tool used to navigate aligned energies and rifts; maybe that’s what they wanted from him?” Quinn nodded, but her thoughts were racing. The compass had meaning, and it shared a language she could nearly grasp. Artisans, Shades, and the Veil—they all belonged to the same secretive network. But she wouldn’t concede to misinformation or folklore; she couldn’t afford to let the darkness cloud her judgment. “Or it could have been left behind. There are plenty of stories about how things in the Market find their way into the wrong hands,” she interjected, hoping to keep Smith grounded. They surveyed the victim once more. Quinn’s critical gaze landed on a detail she’d missed the first time she looked: the bracelet around his wrist, embellished with fine carvings that mirrored the sigils on the compass. “Wait.” She knelt, reaching for it. “What’s the story with this?” “Could be any old accessory,” Smith said, peering at it closely. “But it looks expensive and old. Might mean something more.” Quinn’s brow furrowed. “Or could tie him to someone with some knowledge coming out of The Veil.” She stood, ambition sparking. “We need a good look into his connections. Who he spoke to, who he owed money to, where he was getting this ‘alchemical substances’ from.” “Agreed, but we should also think about those sigils,” Smith suggested, excitement creeping into his tone. “If they have ties to the Market, we could be looking at more than one death here.” Quinn sighed deeply. The information felt incomplete. Her mind raced to her missing partner, DS Morris, and the unexplained circumstances lingering even now. Loss haunted her, but it became a drive that furnished clarity amid fog. “I need to ensure we cover every angle before this leads us anywhere else.” For a moment, she stepped slightly further away from the body, a little distance to collect her thoughts, gathering strength. She’d grown tired of casting aside instinct. A fleeting need for certainty coursed through her. With purpose, she turned back to Smith. “I want to dig into every name connected to The Veil Market. Even if it means ruffling some feathers.” She pointed towards the compass. "And the instant you find a lead on that, I'm in. Something about this feels wrong... and I'm not trusting anyone but my instincts.” Smith nodded, determination surging through him as he jotted down notes. Quinn's gaze lingered on the body, the compass, the darkness around them—this was only the beginning. With the shadows now whispering truths to be uncovered, she felt the pulse of the city race beneath her feet, and she knew she’d have to tread carefully through its veins.