Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFPCXD3JCH5Q2XVZWZGNV

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like the ghost of a bad memory. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder holster, the leather creaking softly in the stillness, and stepped over the yellow police tape strung haphazardly across the rusted turnstiles. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, picking out the graffiti-scrawled walls and the skeletal remains of long-dead ticket machines. This wasn’t just any crime scene. This was *under* Camden, beneath the neon glow of the market stalls and the hum of the city above. And that meant one thing: the Veil Market had been here. Quinn exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp in the silence. She didn’t believe in coincidences. “Detective.” The voice came from the platform ahead, where the flickering light of a portable lamp cast long shadows across the cracked tiles. Eva Kowalski stood with her arms crossed, her round glasses reflecting the dim glow as she turned. The leather satchel slung over her shoulder was bulging, no doubt stuffed with whatever occult nonsense she’d dug up from the British Museum’s restricted archives. Quinn had called her in as a consultant—*unofficially*—after the first body turned up three weeks ago, its fingers blackened like charred wood, its mouth stretched in a silent scream. The coroner had ruled it a drug overdose. Quinn knew better. “You’re late,” Eva said, though there was no real bite to it. Just the usual nervous energy, the way she tucked a curl of red hair behind her left ear before she could stop herself. Quinn ignored the comment. “What’ve we got?” Eva gestured toward the far end of the platform, where a cluster of forensic officers in white suits moved like ghosts around a body bag. “Same as before. Male, early thirties. No ID. Cause of death—” She hesitated, her fingers twitching toward her satchel before she caught herself. “Officially, it’s listed as cardiac arrest. Unofficially?” Her voice dropped. “His shadow’s still here.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like the way Eva said it, like it was a fact instead of a figure of speech. “Explain.” Eva didn’t answer right away. Instead, she led Quinn past the forensic team, their murmured conversations fading into the background as they approached the body. The victim lay on his back, his skin waxy under the harsh light. His eyes were open, milky and unseeing, but it was his hands that made Quinn’s stomach clench. The fingers were curled inward, the tips blackened as if dipped in ink. She crouched beside him, her torch beam tracing the lines of his face, the unnatural stillness of his chest. “No signs of struggle,” she murmured. “No defensive wounds. No drugs in his system—at least, none that show up on a standard tox screen.” “Because they’re not *standard*,” Eva said quietly. “Look at his shadow.” Quinn didn’t want to. But she did. The victim’s shadow stretched across the platform, long and distorted under the angle of the lamp. It should have been a dark smear, a faceless void. Instead, it *moved*. Not like a trick of the light—no, this was deliberate, a slow, creeping shift, as if something beneath the surface of the tiles was pulling at it. Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d seen a lot of things in her eighteen years on the force, but this? This was new. “What the hell is that?” she demanded, her voice low. Eva crouched beside her, her satchel thudding against the ground. “A residual imprint. When someone dies violently—or *unnaturally*—sometimes their last moments get… stuck. Like a recording.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small brass compass, its face etched with sigils that glinted under the light. The needle wavered, then snapped toward the body with a sharp *click*. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “You brought that *thing* to a crime scene?” “It’s not a *thing*,” Eva said, bristling. “It’s a Veil Compass. It detects supernatural energy. And right now, it’s going off like a fire alarm.” Quinn exhaled sharply. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way the compass’s needle trembled, didn’t like the way the victim’s shadow *twitched*, didn’t like the way her skin prickled with the same unease she’d felt three years ago, the night Morris died. The night the case files had gone missing. The night she’d started seeing things that weren’t there. She stood abruptly, her boots scuffing against the tiles. “Walk me through it.” Eva hesitated, then nodded. “The Veil Market was here. Last night, probably. The energy’s still fresh.” She gestured to the compass. “This picks up rifts, portals, that kind of thing. But it also reacts to violent deaths—especially ones tied to the supernatural.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her watch, the worn leather warm against her wrist. “You’re saying this guy was killed by something *not human*.” “I’m saying his death wasn’t natural,” Eva corrected. “And neither were the other two. The blackened fingers? That’s a signature. Something’s siphoning life force. Slowly. Painfully.” Quinn’s mind raced. Three bodies in three weeks. All found in locations tied to the Veil Market—an old church crypt, a derelict theater, now this. All with the same blackened fingers, the same unnatural stillness. And all of them, according to Eva, with shadows that refused to lie still. She crouched again, this time focusing on the victim’s hands. The blackening wasn’t uniform. It started at the fingertips and crept inward, like ink spreading through water. She reached for a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them on before carefully lifting one of his hands. The skin was cold. Too cold. “No rigor mortis,” she muttered. “He’s been dead less than twelve hours, but he’s already at room temperature.” Eva’s breath hitched. “That’s not possible.” “Neither is a shadow that moves on its own,” Quinn shot back. She set the hand down and stood, her gaze sweeping the platform. The forensic team was packing up, their voices low. No one else seemed to notice the way the victim’s shadow *pulsed*, like a heartbeat. She turned to Eva. “You said the Market was here. Where is it now?” Eva bit her lip. “It moves. Every full moon. But it leaves… echoes. Residue.” She held up the compass. The needle was still pointed at the body, but it wavered, as if uncertain. “This guy wasn’t just a victim. He was *looking* for something. Or someone.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. “You think he was involved.” “I think he knew too much,” Eva said. “And whatever he knew got him killed.” Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, she walked to the edge of the platform, her torch beam cutting through the darkness of the tunnel beyond. The air was thicker here, heavier, like the moment before a storm. She could almost *feel* it—the hum of something just out of sight, just out of reach. She turned back to Eva. “You said the Market leaves residue. What kind?” Eva hesitated. “Items. Sometimes people. Things that slip through the cracks.” She reached into her satchel again and pulled out a small, worn notebook. “I’ve been tracking the movements. The last three bodies were all found near places where the Market’s energy spiked. Like it was… leaking.” Quinn’s fingers curled into a fist. “You’re saying this is a pattern.” “I’m saying it’s a *hunt*,” Eva corrected. “And we’re running out of time.” Quinn didn’t like the way her pulse spiked at those words. She didn’t like the way the victim’s shadow *stretched*, as if reaching for something just beyond the light. She didn’t like the way the compass’s needle *twitched*, like a dog catching a scent. But most of all, she didn’t like the way her instincts were screaming at her. Because she’d been here before. Three years ago. In a different abandoned building, with a different body, with the same sickening certainty that she was missing something. That the truth was right in front of her, if she just *looked*. She turned back to the body, her torch beam tracing the lines of his face one last time. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Get me everything you’ve got on the Market’s movements,” she said to Eva, her voice steady. “And call in a favor. I want the coroner to run a full spectral analysis on the tissue samples. If there’s something in his system, I want to know what it is.” Eva’s eyes widened. “You’re actually going to—” “Yes,” Quinn cut in. “I’m going to follow the evidence. Even if it leads me somewhere I don’t want to go.” She didn’t wait for Eva’s response. Instead, she stepped over the yellow tape, her boots echoing in the empty station as she made her way toward the tunnel. The air grew colder with each step, the darkness deeper. But she didn’t stop. Because for the first time in three years, she had a lead. And she wasn’t letting it go.