Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPFYMF15WDZZVJSK6PSR3M

In the gloom of an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the rusted ladder, her worn leather watch catching the meager light from the single functioning bulb. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—an acrid tang that prickled her nostrils. She adjusted her grip on the Veil Compass, its patina of verdigris cool against her palm. Her partner, Detective Sergeant Thompson, was already at the scene, his lanky frame hunched over a body sprawled on the grimy platform. He looked up as she approached, his face pale in the sickly light. "Quinn," he acknowledged, his voice barely above a whisper. Quinn nodded, her sharp jaw set in a grim line. She crouched beside the body, a young woman with curly red hair and round glasses, her freckled complexion stark against the cold concrete. Eva Kowalski, according to the ID in her worn leather satchel. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, her shoes caked with dirt, as if she'd been running. Or fleeing. "Time of death?" Quinn asked, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The platform was empty save for a few forgotten artifacts—an old lantern, a stack of yellowed books, a small brass compass. Nothing that seemed out of place in this forgotten, grimy world. "Doc estimates around midnight," Thompson replied, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Stab wound to the chest. Clean, quick. No sign of struggle." Quinn's brow furrowed. Something wasn't right. She looked closer at the wound, then at Eva's hands. No defensive marks, no dirt under her nails. No sign of a struggle, just like Thompson said. But her satchel was open, books spilled out, pages ruffled as if she'd been reading. And there was that smell—acrid, like something burning. She stood, her gaze scanning the platform again. Then she saw it—a faint scorch mark on the wall behind Eva, barely visible in the dim light. She stepped closer, her heart pounding. It was a sigil, one she recognized from her years working the supernatural cases no one else wanted. A rift sigil. "Thompson," she said, her voice steady despite the sudden surge of adrenaline, "this isn't a mugging gone wrong. This is a murder." Thompson looked at her, his eyes wide. "What are you talking about, Quinn? It's just a stab wound—" "No," she cut him off, pointing at the sigil. "That's a rift sigil. And look at this." She picked up the small brass compass from the ground, its face etched with protective sigils. "This is a Veil Compass. She was here for something supernatural." Thompson shook his head, disbelief written all over his face. "Quinn, you can't seriously believe in that stuff. It's just a story—" "Then explain this," she challenged, holding up the compass. "And this." She pointed at the sigil. "And the fact that she was here, in an abandoned Tube station, at midnight, with a Veil Compass and a rift sigil burned into the wall." Thompson opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss for words. Quinn took a deep breath, her mind racing. She needed to call it in, get a team down here to process the scene. But she also needed to keep this quiet, at least for now. The last thing she needed was the brass getting wind of this and shutting it down before she could even start. She looked down at Eva, her heart heavy. Another victim of the supernatural, another life cut short. She wouldn't let this go unsolved, not like Morris. She wouldn't let Eva down. "Quinn?" Thompson's voice broke into her thoughts. "What do we do now?" She looked at him, her expression determined. "We find out who did this, Thompson. And we bring them to justice. No matter what it takes."