Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGP6EHNBGRW0M7V0YZ93S

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the back of Harlow Quinn’s throat like a bad memory. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, the weight of her service pistol a familiar comfort against her ribs. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the peeling posters of long-forgotten ad campaigns—*Visit the British Empire Exhibition!*—their edges curled like dead leaves. The air hummed with an unnatural stillness, the kind that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. “You’re late,” Eva Kowalski said, not looking up from where she crouched beside the body. Her red curls were a wild halo in the torchlight, her round glasses reflecting the glow as she adjusted them with a gloved hand. The leather satchel at her feet was half-unzipped, a stack of yellowed books spilling out like guts. Harlow exhaled through her nose. “Traffic. And the *location* didn’t help.” She stepped carefully over a rusted track, her boots crunching on something brittle—glass, maybe, or bone. The station had been sealed off for decades, but the graffiti on the walls was fresh, jagged symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. “What’ve we got?” Eva finally looked up, her green eyes sharp behind the lenses. “Male, early thirties. No ID, but the tattoo on his wrist matches the description of a known Veil Market dealer.” She gestured to the corpse with a gloved hand. The man lay sprawled on his back, his coat splayed open like broken wings. His skin was waxy, his lips blue, but it wasn’t the lividity that made Harlow’s stomach clench—it was the way his fingers were curled, as if he’d been trying to claw his way out of something. Harlow crouched beside him, her knee popping. The torchlight caught the glint of something metallic in his fist. She pried his fingers open with a pen from her pocket. A small brass compass, its face etched with sigils, its needle spinning wildly even as she held it still. The patina on the casing was green with age, but the mechanism inside whirred with eerie precision. “Veil Compass,” Eva murmured. “Points to rifts. Or portals. Or whatever the hell you want to call them.” Harlow didn’t answer. She set the compass down on the concrete beside the body and reached for the man’s other hand. His sleeve was rolled up, revealing a series of fresh, precise cuts along his forearm—too clean to be defensive wounds. They looked like *measurements*. “Alchemy,” Eva said, as if reading her mind. “He was scribing a sigil. Probably trying to stabilize a rift.” Harlow’s jaw tightened. “And?” “And it went wrong.” Eva’s voice was matter-of-fact, but her fingers twitched toward the satchel, where a notebook peeked out, its pages filled with frantic scribbles. “The energy backlash would’ve liquefied his insides. Hence the…” She waved a hand at the body. “Mess.” Harlow stood abruptly, her torch sweeping over the scene. The station was a graveyard of discarded things—rusted carts, shattered tiles, the skeletal remains of old vending machines. But her gaze snagged on something else: a trail of dark, glistening droplets leading away from the body, toward the far end of the platform. Not blood. Something thicker. *Oil? Mercury?* She followed it, her boots silent on the concrete. The droplets led to a section of wall where the tiles had been pried away, revealing a jagged hole no larger than a dinner plate. The edges of the hole pulsed faintly, like a slow, uneven heartbeat. Harlow’s breath hitched. She’d seen this before—three years ago, in the warehouse where Morris had died. The same sickly, flickering light. The same *wrongness* in the air. “Quinn,” Eva called, her voice tight. “Don’t.” Harlow ignored her. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the hole. The air around it warped, like heat rising off pavement. A whisper slithered into her ear—no, not a whisper. A *voice*. Low. Guttural. Speaking in a language that made her teeth ache. She jerked her hand back. “It’s a rift,” Eva said, suddenly beside her. “A small one. Probably why the compass was spinning. It’s unstable.” Harlow’s pulse hammered in her throat. “And the dealer?” “He was trying to close it.” Eva’s fingers dug into her satchel, pulling out a small, leather-bound journal. She flipped it open, revealing pages covered in diagrams and frantic notes. “He was part of a group—call themselves the *Hollow Veil*. They’ve been buying up old Veil Market relics, trying to patch the tears before they get worse.” Harlow’s laugh was sharp. “And you *believe* that?” Eva’s green eyes flashed. “I *researched* it. There’s a pattern, Quinn. Rifts opening in places where the Market used to be. Like the city’s *remembering* them.” Harlow turned back to the hole, her reflection wavering in its unnatural light. “So what happened here? He mess up the spell?” “No.” Eva’s voice was quiet. “He was *interrupted*.” Harlow’s blood ran cold. She followed Eva’s gaze to the ground near the hole. A boot print. Fresh. Too large to be the dealer’s. “Someone else was here,” Eva said. “Someone who didn’t want the rift closed.” Harlow crouched, her torch illuminating the print. The tread was deep, the edges sharp—military issue. Her stomach twisted. She knew that print. She’d seen it before, in the warehouse. In the mud outside Morris’s car. She stood abruptly, her hand going to her pistol. “We’re not alone.” Eva’s breath hitched. “Quinn—” A sound echoed through the station—a *click*, like a hammer cocking. Harlow spun, her torch sweeping over the darkness. Nothing. Just shadows. Just the hum of the rift, the whisper of the voice in her ear. Then, from the far end of the platform, a figure stepped into the light. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a long coat that flapped like a shroud in the stagnant air. His face was obscured by the brim of a hat, but Harlow didn’t need to see it. She *knew* him. “Evening, Detective,” the man said, his voice a gravelly purr. “Miss me?” Harlow’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Morris.” The name hung in the air like a curse. Eva made a choked sound. “That’s—” “Not possible,” Harlow finished, her voice steady despite the roar in her ears. Morris was dead. She’d *seen* him die. She’d held his hand as the life bled out of him, his last words a garbled warning about *them*—the things in the dark. But here he was. Standing. Breathing. Smiling. Morris tilted his head, the brim of his hat casting his face in shadow. “You always were a terrible liar, Harlow.” She didn’t lower the gun. “What the hell are you?” He chuckled, low and dark. “The same as you, Detective. Just… *more*.” He took a step forward, his boot crushing something beneath it—a bone token, its surface etched with the same sigils as the compass. “The question is, what are *you* going to do about it?” Harlow’s mind raced. The rift. The dealer. The boot print. The *voice*. Morris wasn’t here to help. He was here to *stop* them. She exhaled, slow and controlled. “Eva. Get behind me.” Eva didn’t argue. She scrambled back, her satchel clutched to her chest, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Harlow kept the torch trained on Morris, her pistol steady. “You killed him,” she said, nodding toward the dealer’s body. “Why?” Morris sighed, as if disappointed. “Because he was *weak*. The Veil’s tearing, Harlow. And when it does, the things on the other side won’t care about your little rules. Your little *laws*.” He spread his hands, the gesture almost apologetic. “Someone’s got to keep the balance.” “The balance?” Harlow’s laugh was bitter. “You call *murder* balance?” “I call it *survival*.” His voice dropped, the words slithering into her ears like serpents. “You felt it, didn’t you? The pull. The *hunger*. It’s in you too, Harlow. You just don’t know it yet.” She didn’t flinch. “I know enough.” Morris’s smile widened. “Then you know this isn’t over.” He turned, his coat billowing as he melted back into the shadows. The rift behind them pulsed, its light flickering like a dying star. Harlow didn’t lower the gun until the darkness swallowed him whole. Eva’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Quinn, what the *hell* was that?” Harlow holstered her pistol, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She crouched beside the dealer’s body, her torch illuminating the compass once more. The needle spun wildly, pointing not at the rift, but at the hole in the wall where Morris had vanished. She picked it up, her fingers tightening around the brass casing. “That,” she said quietly, “was a warning.” Eva swallowed hard. “For what?” Harlow stood, her gaze locked on the darkness where Morris had disappeared. “For the storm.”