Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQF2TT8JRNQVP5P3SPBSHT

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Harlow Quinn’s throat like the ghost of a bad decision. Her torch cut a pale arc through the dark, illuminating the peeling posters of long-forgotten theatre productions and the rusted tracks that hadn’t seen a train in decades. The air hummed, not with the usual London vibration of traffic and life, but with something quieter, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, the weight of her service weapon a familiar comfort against her ribs. The call had come in an hour ago—*unusual circumstances, possible homicide*—and the address had been a dead end until she’d dug deeper. The Veil Market. A name that didn’t appear on any official maps, whispered about in the corners of pubs where the regulars had seen too much. She’d heard the rumors, of course. Supernatural black market, enchanted goods, the kind of place that made her skin itch just thinking about it. But rumors didn’t solve cases. Evidence did. And the evidence here was all wrong. Detective Constable Eva Kowalski stood near the edge of the platform, her round glasses catching the torchlight as she turned. She looked small in the vastness of the station, her curly red hair a stark contrast to the grimy walls. A worn leather satchel was slung over her shoulder, bulging with books—because of course Eva had brought *books* to a crime scene. Harlow exhaled through her nose. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Eva didn’t flinch. “Neither are you, technically. This isn’t exactly a sanctioned investigation.” Harlow stepped closer, her boots crunching on something brittle—glass, maybe, or bone. She didn’t look down. “I got a tip. Anonymous. Said there was a body down here, something the Met wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.” She gestured to the platform, where a chalk outline had been hastily drawn around a dark, irregular stain. “But there’s no body. Just this.” Eva followed her gaze, her fingers twitching toward the satchel before she caught herself. “The stain’s fresh. Less than twelve hours old, I’d guess. And look—” She crouched, careful not to disturb the outline, and pointed at the edge of the platform. “Scuff marks. Like something was dragged. Or *someone*.” Harlow crouched beside her, her sharp jaw tightening. The scuff marks were there, all right—deep grooves in the dust, as if heels had dug in. But the rest of the scene didn’t add up. No blood spatter. No signs of a struggle beyond those marks. And the stain itself was too neat, too *contained*, like whatever had bled here had done so in one sudden, violent rush. “No weapon. No shell casings. No signs of a fight.” She stood, her watch glinting as she checked the time. “And no body.” Eva adjusted her glasses, her green eyes sharp behind the lenses. “Unless it wasn’t a body.” Harlow shot her a look. “You’re not seriously suggesting—” “Supernatural rift,” Eva interrupted, pulling a small brass compass from her satchel. The casing was etched with sigils, the needle wobbling erratically before settling on a point just beyond the platform. “This is a Veil Compass. It points to the nearest rift or portal. And right now, it’s pointing *there*.” She nodded toward a shadowed alcove where the tracks disappeared into darkness. Harlow’s fingers twitched toward her weapon. “You brought a *compass* to a crime scene.” “It’s not just a compass,” Eva said, as if that explained anything. “And before you lecture me, I *told* you this place wasn’t natural. The Veil Market moves every full moon. It’s not supposed to be here. Not *stay* here.” Harlow ignored the prickle of unease at the base of her skull. “So what are you saying? The victim was dragged into some kind of… portal?” Eva hesitated. “Or *through* one. The Market deals in more than just black-market goods. It’s a nexus. A crossing point. If someone died here, their body might not be in this world anymore.” Harlow exhaled sharply. “That’s not how homicide investigations work.” “No,” Eva agreed, tucking a curl behind her ear. “But this isn’t a normal homicide.” Harlow turned away, her torch sweeping over the walls. The station was too quiet. No rats scuttling in the dark. No distant drip of water. Just the oppressive weight of something *waiting*. Her gaze snagged on a symbol carved into the tile near the alcove—a jagged, uneven mark, like a child’s attempt at a star. She crouched, running her fingers over it. The edges were sharp, fresh. “This wasn’t here long.” Eva joined her, her breath hitching. “That’s a Shade sigil. They use them to mark territory. Or warnings.” Harlow’s stomach twisted. She’d heard the name before—whispers in interrogation rooms, the kind of thing that made suspects clam up faster than a guilty plea. “You’re saying the Shades were here.” “Or someone who deals with them.” Eva’s voice was tight. “The Market isn’t just a place, Harlow. It’s a *bargain*. And bargains have consequences.” Harlow stood, her mind racing. The anonymous tip. The missing body. The sigil. None of it fit. None of it *should* fit. But the evidence was there, staring her in the face, and she’d spent eighteen years learning to trust the evidence, no matter how impossible it seemed. She turned back to the stain, her torchlight catching something glinting near the edge. A button. Small, brass, half-buried in the dust. She picked it up, rolling it between her fingers. “This wasn’t here before.” Eva leaned in. “It’s not from a coat. Too small. Maybe a cufflink?” Harlow’s pulse kicked up. “Or a uniform.” She thought of the scuff marks, the drag pattern. Someone had been taken. *Dragged*. And if Eva was right, they hadn’t just been taken *somewhere*. They’d been taken *somewhere else*. She pocketed the button, her mind already piecing together the next steps. “We need to canvas the area. See if anyone saw anything. And I want to know everything you’ve got on the Shades. Their dealings, their territory, their *warnings*.” Eva’s fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel. “Harlow, if the Shades are involved—” “Then we’re dealing with something bigger than a missing body,” Harlow finished, her voice steady. “But that doesn’t change the fact that someone died here. And I *will* find out who.” Eva studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “There’s a contact. A woman who runs a stall in the Market—when it’s open. She deals in information. If anyone knows what happened here, it’s her.” Harlow’s jaw tightened. “Then we find her.” Eva hesitated. “It’s not that simple. The Market doesn’t just *let* people in. You need a bone token. And even then, you have to know the right people.” Harlow met her gaze, unflinching. “Then we get a token.” Eva exhaled, her fingers drifting to the compass in her satchel. “You don’t understand. The Market isn’t just dangerous. It’s *hungry*. It takes things. Memories. Time. Sometimes, it doesn’t give them back.” Harlow didn’t look away. “I’ve lost people before, Eva. I’m not losing this one.” The words hung between them, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Eva’s green eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe, or the ghost of an old argument. But she didn’t push back. Instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small, yellowed bone, carved with the same jagged sigil from the wall. “I have a token. But we go in together. And we don’t stay long.” Harlow took the bone, her fingers curling around it. It was warm, almost pulsing, like something alive. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “Together.” Eva nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then let’s go find your missing body.” The torchlight flickered as they turned toward the alcove, the Veil Compass needle trembling in Eva’s grip. The air grew thicker, heavier, like the moment before a storm breaks. Harlow’s hand rested on her weapon, her military precision honed to a razor’s edge. Whatever was waiting in the dark, she’d face it. She always did. Because the evidence didn’t lie. And neither did she.