Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEZD672B2RB68XC1W06SV

The air hung thick and stagnant, a cloying cocktail of damp earth and something far less definable – a faint, metallic tang that prickled the back of Harlow’s throat. Fluorescent lights, jury-rigged from some scavenged industrial surplus, cast stark, unflattering pools of illumination on the grimy concrete floor of the disused Tube station. Rats, plump and unafraid, skittered in the periphery, their tiny eyes glinting like scattered embers. “Another fresh one, Detective?” Harlow didn’t turn. She knew that voice, a little too eager, a little too slick. Detective Sergeant Davies. Ten years her junior and already angling for her desk, she suspected. Davies was a relic of the old guard, the kind who believed in gut feelings and shoe leather, but his curiosity often outstripped his caution. “Looks that way, Davies,” Harlow replied, her voice flat. She adjusted the collar of her sensible, slate-grey coat, the worn leather of her watch strap cool against her skin. The flickering light from her handheld torch danced across the scene, illuminating the tableau with a harsh, unforgiving glare. This wasn’t her usual beat. The Veil Market. She’d only heard whispers, the kind of back-alley rumour that usually dissipated with the morning mist. An abandoned Tube station, they’d said. Beneath Camden. A place where things that shouldn’t exist found their way into the hands of people who shouldn’t have them. She still wasn’t entirely sure how they’d tracked the damn thing through the labyrinthine tunnels. The Veil Compass, a trinket she’d confiscated from a peddler on a previous, more conventional case, had been the key. Its verdigris-streaked brass casing felt unnervingly warm in her pocket now, its protective sigils humming with a barely perceptible energy. It had pointed her here, to this forgotten subterranean artery, but it hadn't explained why a body, clearly not of this world, had turned up dead amongst the refuse and decay. The victim lay sprawled near a graffiti-scarred support pillar. Not a clean shot. Not a knife wound. The flesh, an unnatural shade of bruised puce, was taut and leathery, like dried fruit. It was brittle, too. A careless brush of Davies’s nitrile-gloved hand had sent a flake of skin drifting to the floor, where it promptly disintegrated into a fine, glittering powder. “Anything, Davies?” Harlow asked, her eyes sweeping the semicircle of uniformed officers diligently bagging evidence. Davies, ever the showman, straightened up from his kneeling position beside the body. “Preliminary sweep suggests… well, not much, Detective. No ID. No signs of struggle, as you can see. And the cause of death is…” He spread his hands, a gesture of perplexed resignation. “…unusual. Medics are baffled. Say it looks like dessication, accelerated. But there’s no obvious water loss. No heat source registered.” Harlow knelt, her movements precise, economical. The body was thin, skeletal even, beneath the strange, brittle skin. The eyes were sunken into their sockets, hollowed out, but there was no glaze, no hint of life – past or present. She noticed, then, the faint network of hairline fractures crisscrossing the exposed skin of the forearms, like frost patterns on a winter windowpane. “Dessication,” Harlow mused, her gaze fixed on the fractures. “But not from heat. Or lack of water.” She followed the lines with her eyes, tracing them up the arms, around the neck, disappearing beneath the tattered remnants of what might have once been clothing. “Davies, did anyone check for energetic residue?” Davies blinked. “Energetic residue? Detective, with all due respect, this isn’t CSI: Supernatural. This is a decomposing body in an abandoned Tube station. We’re looking for conventional forensics.” Harlow let out a soft sigh. “The ‘conventional’ doesn’t fit, Davies. Look at this skin. It’s mummified, yes, but without any apparent cause. And these fractures. They’re too uniform, too deliberate. Almost crystalline.” She pointed with her torch, the beam catching the faint, iridescent shimmer of the pulverized skin on the floor. “That’s not human dust, Davies. Not entirely.” Davies grumbled, but he pulled a portable scanner from his kit. It whirred to life, emitting a low hum as he passed it over the body. The display flickered, showing a chaotic spread of readings. “Nothing significant, Detective. Background radiation is within normal parameters. Trace amounts of… something. Organics, but unusual. High levels of magnesium, potassium. Trace heavy metals.” “Magnesium and potassium are essential for cellular function,” Harlow murmured, her mind already working, sifting through the fragments of knowledge she’d accumulated over eighteen years on the force, and the more recent, unsettling additions from cases that had veered off the map. “But if they were somehow extracted or… burned out…” She stood, her gaze scanning the environment. The damp concrete walls. The rusted tracks. The graffiti. The refuse. Everything was mundane, depressingly so. Yet, the atmosphere felt charged, heavy. The Veil Compass in her coat pocket pulsed, a subtle vibration that travelled up her sleeve. “He was killed here,” Harlow stated, not as a question, but as a declaration. “It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. It wasn’t even a simple murder. This is… something else.” “But what, Detective?” Davies pressed, clearly frustrated by her cryptic pronouncements. “What else could it be?” Harlow walked slowly towards the edge of the illuminated crime scene, her torch beam sweeping across the cavernous space. The main platform was some distance away, shrouded in shadow. “I need to speak to my… associate,” she said, a slight hesitation in her voice. Davies raised an eyebrow. “You brought in a civilian, Detective?” “She’s an expert,” Harlow countered, her tone hardening. “On… unusual matters. Someone who understands the deeper currents. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Davies looked like he was about to object, then seemed to think better of it. He was a detective, yes, but he was also a subordinate. He’d seen Harlow chase down leads others dismissed as lunacy, and more often than not, she’d been right. So, he confined himself to a curt nod and a mumbled, “Just try not to get any more paperwork involving… peculiar circumstances, Detective.” Twenty minutes later, the distinct clack of sensible shoes on concrete announced Eva Kowalski’s arrival. She emerged from the tunnel entrance, a splash of vibrant red amidst the drab monochrome of the station. Her curly hair was a halo around her face, framed by round glasses perched on her nose. A worn leather satchel, bulging with books, was slung over her shoulder. She looked both out of place and strangely at home, her green eyes wide with a mixture of trepidation and fascination. “Harlow,” Eva said, her voice a little breathy. “You said it was… odd.” Harlow led her towards the body, Davies trailing a few paces behind, curiosity etched on his face. “Odd doesn’t quite cover it, Evie.” Eva stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. Even with her extensive knowledge of ancient rituals and forgotten rites, the sight was jarring. She knelt, her movements mirroring Harlow’s earlier careful descent. Her fingers, slender and ink-stained, hovered inches above the desiccated flesh. “This isn’t natural,” Eva whispered, her eyes scanning the victim’s form. “The cellular structure… it’s as if it’s been… vibrated apart. Or leached of its vital essence.” “Vital essence,” Davies echoed, a skeptical frown creasing his brow. Eva finally looked at him, her gaze steady. “There are forces, Detective Davies, that operate beyond the scope of traditional forensic science. Energies that can affect matter in profound ways.” She turned back to Harlow. “This looks like an extreme case of life-force drain. But usually, that leaves the victim… withered, yes, but intact. Not… brittle.” “Crystalline fractures,” Harlow supplied, pointing. “And the analysis showed high levels of magnesium and potassium.” Eva’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Magnesium. Potassium. Electrolytes. Essential for nerve and muscle function. If something leached those specific elements from the body, at a rapid rate…” She trailed off, a dawning horror in her expression. “It would destabilize the cellular bonds. Cause a cascade of breakdown. Like dissolving a salt crystal in water, but on a biological level.” “But what could do that?” Harlow asked, her gaze already drifting back to the surroundings. She didn’t rely on Eva’s knowledge for the *how*, but for the *what*. The Veil Market was a place of transaction, of trade. What kind of illicit good could induce such a specific, devastating effect? Eva stood, her mind racing. She ran a hand through her already dishevelled hair, a nervous habit that Harlow recognised instantly. “Anything that deals with elemental manipulation. Alchemical substances. Or… something that draws directly from a living source. A parasitic entity, perhaps, or a ritualistic extraction.” Harlow’s gaze landed on a discarded, tarnished brass locket lying a few feet away from the body. It was small, ornate, and decidedly out of place amidst the general grime. She picked it up with a gloved hand. It was cool to the touch, almost unnaturally so. The surface was etched with intricate, repeating patterns that seemed to writhe in her peripheral vision. “This,” Harlow said, turning the locket over in her palm. “This feels… wrong. Like the energy from the Compass on a smaller scale.” Eva leaned in, her eyes scrutinizing the locket. “Those are seals. Wards. But they’re… twisted. Inverted. This isn’t a protective charm, Harlow. It’s a siphon.” Davies, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward. “A siphon? So, this thing killed him?” “I believe it’s the delivery mechanism,” Harlow said, her voice low. She tried to open the locket, but it was sealed shut. No visible clasp. She pressed her thumb against the surface, feeling a faint vibration emanating from within. “It feeds. And whatever it fed on… it didn’t stop until the host was completely drained.” “Which would explain the desiccated, brittle flesh,” Eva added, looking at the body with renewed understanding. “And the crystalline structure of the fractures. The rapid expulsion of vital electrolytes would crystallize what little moisture remained in the cells.” Harlow held the locket up to the harsh light. The intricate etchings seemed to deepen, to absorb the light rather than reflect it. “So, our victim was at the Veil Market. He acquired this… item. And it became the last thing he ever touched.” Davies let out a low whistle. “So, this is how they’re doing it? Selling these… life-draining trinkets?” “It’s a possibility,” Harlow admitted. “A nasty one.” She felt a familiar unease settle in her stomach, the same feeling she'd had three years ago, standing over Morris’s body. This wasn't just about petty crime or black market goods. This was about something far older, far more dangerous. The Verge Market wasn't just a place for illegal supernatural goods; it was a nexus, a place where the veil between worlds thinned. And sometimes, things slipped through. Or were intentionally brought through. Harlow gripped the locket tighter. The Compass in her pocket gave a more insistent thrum. The victim’s body was a puzzle, but the locket was a key. And she had a sinking feeling that unlocking its secret would lead her down a path she couldn't yet comprehend. A path that might just lead her back to the shadows that had claimed her partner.