Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFTPV4QKKRAX738H5J9S9

The air in the abandoned Tube station was thick with the scent of damp earth, old wiring, and something else—something sharp and acrid, like burnt sugar and wet copper. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped carefully across the cracked tile floor, her boots clicking softly with each measured pace. Her breath came slow and even, but her brown eyes were wide and scanning, missing nothing. The beam of her flashlight cut through the oppressive dim, catching glints on broken glass, the rusted tracks still buried beneath decades of grime, and the pale, fluttering moths that danced around the one working bulb near the archway. This wasn’t just any crime scene. Three hours ago, a call had come in—an anonymous tip, garbled through distortion, claiming a body had been found beneath Camden Station. No details. No name. But when Harlow arrived, flanked by two uniforms who now stood nervously near the tunnel’s exit, she recognized the space for what it was. Or rather, what it had become. An access tunnel had been pried open behind a collapsed maintenance wall. Beyond it, the station—long decommissioned in the 1960s—had been transformed. Candles lined the curved walls, their flames unnaturally still, casting a warm but sickly yellow glow. Stalls made of blackened wood and draped in moth-eaten velvet lined the corridor. The smell of incense, of old parchment, of something faintly reptilian, curled through the air. She’d seen this before. Not here, not exactly—but in the frayed edges of her memory, in the last hours of her partner DS Morris, when he’d whispered about *marketplaces in the dark* and *things that shouldn’t breathe*. *The Veil Market.* Even the name made her jaw tighten. She’d never believed in it—until tonight. “Detective Quinn,” a voice said from behind. She turned, lowering her flashlight. Eva Kowalski stood a few feet away, wrapped in a long wool coat that looked too big for her slight frame. Her curly red hair was half tucked under a knit beanie, the rest spilling out in wild tendrils around her round glasses. She fiddled with a lock of hair, tucking it behind her left ear—the nervous habit Harlow had noticed the first time they’d met, after Aurora’s brother had vanished and Eva had shown up with a folder full of censored museum records. “Ms. Kowalski,” Harlow said. “You weren’t supposed to be here.” “I’ve studied this place,” Eva said, her green eyes scanning the stalls, the sigils painted in chalk beneath the platform edge. “I know how it works. I thought you might need someone who does.” Harlow studied her—really studied her. The way her fingers twitched toward the worn leather satchel slung across her chest. The slight tremor in her voice. But also the steel beneath it. This woman had faced things Harlow could hardly name and still stood. She sighed. “Fine. But stay behind me. And if I tell you to run, you run.” Eva nodded, tight-lipped. They approached the center of the station where the body lay. A man, mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored suit, splayed on his back. No blood. No visible wounds. But his face—twisted in terror, lips pulled back, eyes wide and frozen mid-scream. His fingers were curled into claws, blackened at the tips, as if scorched. Harlow knelt, careful not to touch him. She pulled on gloves from her coat pocket. The flashlight hovered over his chest. No punctures. No bruising. Nothing. One of the uniforms, a young constable named Bryson, cleared his throat. “Forensics is on the way, ma’am. But… they’re not going to like this place.” “They don’t have to like it,” Harlow said sharply. “They just have to do their jobs.” Bryson nodded, retreating. Harlow turned her attention back to the man. She checked his pockets. Wallet. ID. Credit cards. All intact. No signs of struggle. No forced entry. Yet… she frowned. His watch was still running. Precisely 11:47 p.m. But her own wristwatch—the worn leather band snug against her skin—read 1:12 a.m. She blinked. Checked again. 1:13. “Eva,” she said without looking up. “Did you feel it when you came in? The… lag?” Eva stepped closer. “Time doesn’t move the same here. The Market exists between moments. It’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to find—unless you have a token.” Harlow’s eyes flicked to the man’s right hand. Clenched in his fist—a small, yellowed thing the size of a fingertip. Bone. She gently pried it open. A bone token. “Who was he?” she asked. Eva crouched beside her. “I know him. Silas Vane. He’s… was… a collector. Acquired rare occult artifacts. Not exactly legal, even on this side of the veil.” Harlow’s gaze swept the scene again. No footprints but theirs. No sign of blood. No weapon. No forced trauma. And yet, he was dead. “Cause of death?” Eva asked quietly. “Not obvious,” Harlow said. “But look at his fingertips. It’s not soot. It’s… carbonization. Like something burned him from the inside.” Eva inhaled sharply. “That’s resonance burn.” Harlow turned to her. “Explain.” “When a rift opens,” Eva said, voice low, “it emits energy—supernatural frequency. Prolonged exposure without protection can disrupt cellular structure. This kind of burn… it’s rare. Usually only happens when someone’s too close to a tear when it collapses.” Harlow stood. “So you’re saying he died from standing near a portal?” “Or falling through one,” Eva said. “If it sealed behind him…” Harlow’s mind raced. Her partner Morris—three years ago, in that alley in Whitechapel—had vanished mid-radio call. One second he was reporting a suspicious warehouse, the next, static. Then silence. They’d found his service weapon. His notepad. But no body. No body, but the same blackened fingers. A chill crawled up her spine. She stepped back, scanning the platform. The candles—arranged in a loose pentagram. The sigils—worn but visible. And behind the body, half hidden under debris, something glinted. She moved toward it, flashlight beam narrowing. A small brass compass. Covered in verdigris. The face etched with tiny, intricate markings—sigils, Eva would call them. The Veil Compass. Harlow picked it up. Cold to the touch. The needle didn’t point north. It pointed *down*. Toward the tracks. She crouched, pressing her hand to the stone platform. There. Faint. A vibration. Like a heartbeat beneath the earth. “Detective,” Eva said, voice urgent. “That compass… it’s not just a tool. It’s a warning.” Harlow stood, clutching it. “This wasn’t a murder,” she said slowly. “It was an accident. He came here—bought a way in, wandered too close to a rift that was unstable. Maybe tried to cross. And when it collapsed…” “He was caught in the collapse,” Eva finished. “Burned by the backlash. But the rift sealed over—leaving no trace. Just him.” Harlow looked around—not just with her eyes, but with everything she’d learned in eighteen years. The missing pieces. The inconsistencies. The silence. Then she saw it. The body. *Too clean.* No dust. No grime from the station floor. Even though he’d supposedly been here for hours, his suit was pristine, untouched by mold or soot. “He was moved,” she said. Eva blinked. “What?” “They found him here,” Harlow said, voice rising, “but he didn’t die here. Look—no drag marks. No disturbance in the dust. His shoes are clean. He was brought in *after*.” Eva stared at her. “Why?” “To send a message,” Harlow said. “To the people who run this place. Or to someone like you. Someone who knows how it works.” She turned to Bryson. “Call it in again. Tell forensics to come with containment units. And… notify the regional inspector. I want jurisdiction confirmed.” Bryson hesitated. “Ma’am, we’re not supposed to…” “Do it,” she snapped. As he fumbled for his radio, Harlow turned back to the compass in her hand. The needle still shivered, pointing downward. But now, she understood. This wasn’t just a crime scene. It was a cover-up. And the real evidence—whatever had torn Silas Vane apart—was still out there. Maybe beneath their feet. Maybe waiting to open again. She glanced at Eva, whose fingers were now pressed to her satchel, as if protecting something inside. “We’re not done here,” Harlow said quietly. Eva met her gaze. “No. We’re not.” The compass hummed in Harlow’s hand, cold and certain. And far below, in the dark between the old rails, something answered.