Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P3VJFYB5JHWQE3KQ2K

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like rust. Her torch cut a jagged path through the dark, illuminating the peeling posters of long-forgotten theatre productions, their edges curled like dead leaves. The air hummed, not with the usual underground vibration of trains, but with something quieter, more insistent. A low, resonant thrum that set her teeth on edge. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder holster, the leather creaking softly. "You’re sure this is the place?" Eva Kowalski didn’t look up from the notebook she was scribbling in, her round glasses catching the torchlight. "Positive. The coordinates match the last known location of the Veil Market before it moved." She tucked a curl of red hair behind her ear, a nervous habit Quinn had come to recognize. "Though, technically, we’re not supposed to be here. The Market’s entry requirements are… specific." Quinn exhaled through her nose. "And yet, here we are." The beam of her torch swept over the platform, catching on something half-buried in the grime—a glint of brass, half-hidden beneath a discarded newspaper. She crouched, brushing the debris aside with gloved fingers. The compass was small, its casing etched with sigils that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. The needle trembled, then swung wildly before settling on a point just beyond the platform’s edge. Eva’s breath hitched. "That’s a Veil Compass. They’re not supposed to be outside the Market. Ever." Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy studying the scene. The platform was a mess—overturned crates, shattered glass, and what looked like scorch marks along the tiled walls. But something was off. The debris was too *neat*, too *deliberate*. Like someone had staged it. She stood, her boots crunching on broken glass. "Walk me through it." Eva hesitated, then stepped forward, her satchel bumping against her hip. "The Market was here last night. It moves every full moon, but it’s always left some trace behind—residual magic, mostly. This time, though, it’s like something *ripped* it out of place." She gestured to the scorch marks. "That’s not just fire. It’s sigil burn. Someone tried to force their way in." Quinn’s gaze flicked to the compass in her hand. The needle hadn’t moved. "And this?" "It’s attuned to rifts," Eva said. "If it’s pointing that way, there’s either a portal or a tear in the veil somewhere nearby. But the Market’s supposed to be gone by now. It shouldn’t still be here." Quinn didn’t like the way Eva’s voice wavered. She didn’t like the way the compass’s needle *twitched*, either, like it was alive. She pocketed it, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch strap. "You said the Market moves. How?" Eva adjusted her glasses. "No one knows for sure. Theories range from dimensional folding to—" "A *what*?" "Never mind." Eva waved a hand. "The point is, it’s not supposed to be *here* anymore. But something went wrong. The energy’s all tangled up, like a knot that won’t come undone." Quinn’s jaw tightened. She didn’t believe in magic. She believed in evidence, in patterns, in the cold, hard truth of what could be seen and measured. But she also believed in her instincts, and right now, they were screaming at her that something was *very* wrong. She moved farther down the platform, her torchlight catching on a dark stain near the edge. Crouching again, she ran her fingers along the tile. Dry. Old. But the pattern was unmistakable—spatter, like something had been thrown with force. Or *someone*. Eva’s voice was quiet behind her. "You think this is connected to your case?" Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew the answer. Three years ago, her partner, DS Morris, had vanished during a routine surveillance op near Camden. The official report called it a botched raid, a tragic accident. But Quinn had seen the way Morris’s notes had gone from meticulous to frantic in the days leading up to his disappearance. She’d seen the symbols he’d scribbled in the margins—symbols that looked *suspiciously* like the ones etched into the compass in her pocket. She stood, her gaze sweeping the platform one last time. "There’s no body." Eva blinked. "What?" "No body," Quinn repeated. "If this was a struggle, if someone was hurt, where’s the body?" Eva’s fingers tightened around her notebook. "Maybe they took it with them." "Or maybe there wasn’t one to begin with." Quinn’s voice was low, her mind racing. "You said the Market moves. What happens if it doesn’t? What happens if it gets *stuck*?" Eva’s breath hitched. "You think the Market’s still here?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was already moving toward the edge of the platform, where the compass’s needle pointed like an accusing finger. The air grew thicker, heavier, pressing against her skin like a damp cloth. The thrumming sound intensified, vibrating in her bones. Then she saw it. A tear. Not in the wall, not in the floor—*in the air itself*. A jagged, shimmering line, like heat rising off pavement, but wrong. *Unnatural*. It pulsed, flickering in and out of existence, and for a second, Quinn thought she saw *something* moving on the other side. A shadow. A shape. Eva’s voice was a whisper. "Oh God." Quinn didn’t take her eyes off the tear. "You said the Market moves. How do we make it *stop*?" Eva didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Because the tear *ripped* wider. A gust of wind howled through the station, carrying with it the scent of ozone and something older, something *rotten*. Quinn’s torch flickered, then died. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, and for a heartbeat, she thought she heard laughter—high, shrill, *wrong*. Then the lights came back on. Not the torch. Not the emergency bulbs. *The Market.* Stalls materialized out of the dark, their awnings fluttering in a wind that didn’t exist. Lanterns flickered to life, casting long, distorted shadows across the platform. The air filled with the scent of spices and something metallic, like blood and old coins. And standing in the center of it all was a woman. She was tall, her skin the color of polished mahogany, her hair braided with strands of silver that caught the light like spider silk. Her eyes—*God, her eyes*—were entirely black, pupil and iris both, like pools of oil. Quinn’s hand went to her holster. The woman smiled. "Detective Quinn. We’ve been expecting you."