Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGMDVHR4R78EJCQTE0GP3

The air in the abandoned Camden Tube station tasted of wet concrete and iron. It was a copper tang that clawed at the back of the throat, sharp and unmistakable. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed the heel of her hand against her earlobe, massaging the tension from the bone. The low hum of distant train tracks vibrated through the soles of her boots, a subsonic reminder of the city above—chaotic, bright, and fast. She adjusted the strap of her worn leather watch, its face a dark mirror to the flickering sodium light of the station. 03:12 AM. Three hours past curfew. Harlow’s jaw tightened, a sharp, familiar ache settling just behind the hinge. She stepped over a pile of discarded rotisserie chicken bones near the turnstiles, her movements precise, military in their efficiency. She didn’t like this place. The station had been sealed off for ten years after the flooding, but tonight, it wasn’t water that had risen. "Subject number four," a voice called out. Harlow didn't turn until she recognized the tone—the delicate, high-pitched lilt that belonged to Eva Kowalski. She stepped into the pool of light cast by a flickering fluorescent strip, catching sight of the redhead crouched by the edge of the platform. Eva Kowalski adjusted her round glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose. She looked less like a researcher from the British Museum and more like a startled rabbit, despite the intimidating surroundings. She wore her curly red hair in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame a face dotted with freckles. In her hands, she held a leather-bound journal, thick with dog-eared pages. "He’s shifted," Eva said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She indicated the body slumped against the rusted pillar nearby. Harlow approached. The victim was a man in his thirties, dressed in a suit that had seen better days. His neck was at an awkward angle, the gravity of death pulling his head down to rest against his chest like a child finally sleeping. "Shifted?" Harlow asked, her voice gravelly. "He's dead, Evie. That's usually what happens." Eva didn't stand up. She remained crouched, her knees pulling against her blouse. "The Veil Market moves, Quinn. It shifts like a tide. But this..." She tapped the ground with a manicured finger. "This isn't a displacement. This is a distortion." Harlow fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was a detective with eighteen years of service on the force. She dealt with murders, assaults, and the occasional smuggling ring involving stolen art. She did not deal with "distortions" or "shifting tides." She reached for her maglite, clicking it on. The beam cut through the dust motes dancing in the artificial light, illuminating the harsh angles of the scene. "I'm going to process the scene," Harlow said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Forensics will determine the cause of death. You can put the journal away." Eva let out a breath that rustled her hair. "You don't see it, do you?" "I see a dead man in an abandoned subway station. It happens." "It happens because the Market is active," Eva countered, finally standing. She dusted off her trousers, then reached into her satchel, pulling out a velvet pouch. She tied it shut with a ribbon. "Three days ago, the men in the grey suits showed up. The Clique. They were looking for a breach. This..." She gestured vaguely at the corpse. "This is the consequence of that search." "The Clique?" Harlow asked, the name hanging heavy in the stale air. She had suspected the clique was involved in criminal activity, but having it stated so baldly by a civilian researcher was a jump. "Show me this breach, Evie." Eva pointed a slender finger toward the tunnel ahead, past the turnstiles. "It’s here. The energy is leaking. You can feel it if you stop moving so much." Harlow stepped forward, the beam of her flashlight sweeping across the tunnel wall. It was bare concrete, graffiti faded and peeling, just as it had been for a decade. "I don't see anything, Eva. No rift, no portal, no energy leak. Just dust and rats." Eva laughed softly, a sound that was out of place here. "You're looking at the physical world, Harlow. Look at the shadow." Harlow frowned. She aimed the beam at the ground. The shadows cast by the fluorescent tubes were long and distorted, stretching across the grime. "Shadows are always distorted." "Wrong shadow." Harlow stopped. She looked up at the overhead cables. Then, she looked at the wall directly behind where the body had been found. She angled the light, focusing on a specific spot where the grime seemed to shimmer. "I don't—" she began, but then she saw it. It wasn't a stain. It was a blur. A patch of the concrete where the texture had been eaten away, not by time, but by something sharp and sudden. "Look at his neck," Eva murmured. Harlow lowered the flashlight, shining it at the victim's throat. There was no obvious wound. No bullet hole. No knife slash. Just a small, dark bruise, but the skin around it was a peculiar, gunmetal grey. "That's..." Harlow hesitated. "That's lividity. That's just pooling blood." "No, it's not," Eva said, stepping closer. "It’s a brand. A sigil that’s only visible to those with the eyes to see it." Harlow stepped back. The logic was flawed, the evidence was circumstantial, but the instinct—that cold, hard metal needle in her gut that had served her since Basic Training—vibrated with a warning. "Step back, Kowalski. This is a homicide. You stay out of my crime scene." Eva held her ground, her green eyes wide in the dim light. "It’s not homicide, Detective. It’s a warning." "You think you're a fortune teller now?" "I'm an academic," Eva snapped, her voice dropping an octave. "And I read the language they write in. They didn't just kill him. They removed him." Harlow stiffened. "What does that mean?" "Read the compass." Harlow blinked. "What?" Eva pointed to the satchel at Harlow’s side. Harlow had forgotten she was wearing the Veil Compass she’d bought at a safehouse on Baker Street. It was a small brass trinket, encrusted with verdigris, the needle vibrating with a restless energy. She took it out. The needle was spinning. It didn't just point north; it whipped in a chaotic, circular frenzy, trembling against the glass casing. "She thinks it’s a spirit," Eva whispered. "No," Harlow said, her voice dropping to match the intensity of the room. "She's right about the spirit, but wrong about the source." Eva looked at the spinning compass. "It’s the restless dead." Harlow narrowed her eyes, overriding the intuitive response telling her to call for backup and get this woman out of the way. She looked at the victim’s legs. They were crossed, ankles locked in a firm, unnatural grip. He wasn’t just lying there. He had been pinned. And then she noticed the watch. The victim’s wristwatch. It was a expensive piece of German engineering, stopped precisely at 03:10. Ten minutes after Harlow arrived. She looked back at the compass. The needle had stopped. It wasn't spinning anymore. It was hovering, pointing directly downward—into the floor, through the concrete, toward something deep beneath the Underground. "Unless I miss my guess," Harlow said, her voice low and dangerous, "the Market isn't just open tonight. It's being held hostage." Eva took a step back. "Then we should go." "Stay here," Harlow ordered, shifting her weight to engage her combat stance. "I’m going to see who's keeping the Veil open." She clipped the compass back to her belt. The needle was still pointing down, a defiant finger stabbing at the earth. Harlow raised her flashlight, squinting against the sudden glare radiating from the darkness ahead. There was a sound—a wet, tearing sound, like canvas being ripped apart. She moved forward, stepping over the body. The "breach" in the wall grew larger, a jagged tear in reality that hummed with a sound that made her teeth ache. "I warned you," Eva called out from the dark. Harlow didn't answer. She had a job to do. She had lost a partner once, three years ago. She wasn't going to lose another one to a mistake in interpretation, no matter how many books Eva had read. She tightened her grip on her maglite. The shadow in the tunnel wasn't just a distortion. It was a mouth opening, waiting to feed.