Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQHPFQ1S069J917AD2SHK6

The air down here tasted of wet iron and silence, a thick, cloying dampness that seemed to cling to the back of the throat. Harlow Quinn clicked her flashlight off, then on again, the beam cutting a sharp white cone through the gloom of the abandoned Tube station. The rails were rusted snakes, sleepers rotting into the dark earth of the tunnel bed. It was a place the city had forgotten, buried beneath the bustle of Camden like a bad memory. Quinn moved with military precision, her boots crunching softly on the gravel. She checked her watch, the leather strap worn smooth against her wrist. 03:14. The witching hour, if you believed in that sort of thing. She didn’t. Or at least, she told herself she didn’t. Three years ago, with DS Morris’s empty grave still fresh in her mind, she would have laughed at the idea. Now, she just kept her hand close to her holster. "There’s nothing natural about this," Eva Kowalski said, her voice echoing slightly off the curved, tiled walls. Quinn glanced over. Eva stood near the edge of the platform, clutching her worn leather satchel to her chest like a shield. The young researcher looked pale, the flash of her red curly hair the only vibrant thing in the sepia gloom. She kept pushing her round glasses up her nose, a nervous tic that had been driving Quinn crazy for the last hour. "Stick to the facts, Evie," Quinn said, her tone clipped. "We process the scene, we write the report, we go home." "I am sticking to the facts," Eva insisted, stepping closer to the taped-off area. "The facts are inconsistent. Look at the body." Quinn turned her attention to the corpse lying sprawled on the dirty tiles. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in a coat that cost more than Quinn’s car. His name was Julian Thorne. According to the cursory background check Quinn had run on the walk down here, Thorne was a broker. High finance, low morals. "He fell," Quinn said, playing devil’s advocate. "Slipped on the moss, cracked his skull on the edge of the platform." "He didn't fall," Eva said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her left ear. "The blood is wrong." Quinn frowned. She knelt, ignoring the grime seeping into her trousers. She hovered her flashlight over the dark pool spreading from Thorne’s head. It was slick, reflecting the light like oil. "Explain." "Coagulation," Eva said, crouching down opposite her. "It’s been… what, twenty minutes since the call came in? Thirty? The blood should still be fluid, pooling according to gravity. This is already congealing. It’s thick. And look at the color." She pointed a freckled finger. "It’s too dark. Almost black. Like it’s been dead for hours." Quinn leaned in closer. Eva was right. The consistency was off. It had a viscous, tar-like quality that blood simply shouldn't have this soon after death. But the body was still warm; she could feel the radiating heat from here. "Environmental factors?" Quinn suggested. "Cold air down here?" "It’s twelve degrees Celsius, Harlow. Not a morgue." Eva opened her satchel, rummaging through a stack of hardcover books until she pulled out a small, leather-bound field notebook. "And look at his hands." Quinn shifted the beam to the victim’s hands. They were relaxed, palms up, fingers slightly curled. No defensive wounds. No dirt under the fingernails from a desperate fall. "If he slipped, he’d have tried to break his fall," Quinn murmured. "Palms would be shredded, knuckles skinned." "Exactly," Eva said. "He was placed there. Or he just… ceased." "Cease to be? That’s not a police term, Evie." "It’s an occult term," Eva corrected, her voice dropping to a whisper. "This is the Veil Market, Harlow. Or it was, last night. It moves locations every full moon. He was left behind. Or maybe he was the price of entry." Quinn stood up, brushing off her knees. She scanned the platform. It was a mess of debris—old newspapers, crushed beer cans, the detritus of the homeless and the reckless. But there was a circle of emptiness around the body. No dust. No rat droppings. Just clean, terrified tiles. "You think he was killed by magic?" Quinn asked, keeping her skepticism sharp. It was her armor. "I think the evidence points toward an energy drain," Eva said, her professional researcher voice warring with her fear. "Rapid onset. Violent. It matches accounts of… things feeding." Quinn walked a perimeter around the body. She didn't believe in things that went bump in the night. She believed in motive, means, and opportunity. But Morris’s death had left a scar on her mind that wouldn't heal. The official report said ‘cardiac event due to stress,’ but Quinn had seen the shadow moving in the corner of the interrogation room. She had felt the temperature drop. Her light caught a glint of metal near the victim’s left hand. It was half-buried in the grime of the platform, discarded like trash. Quinn pulled on a nitrile glove and reached down. She retrieved the object and held it up to the light. It was a compass. Small, brass, with a heavy patina of verdigris eating away at the edges. It looked ancient, the casing etched with intricate symbols that hurt the eyes if stared at for too long. Quinn rotated it in her grip. The glass face was cracked, but the needle inside spun lazily, refusing to settle. "What have you got there?" Eva asked, craning her neck. "Lost property," Quinn said, though a prickle of dread ran down her spine. "Let me see." Quinn handed it over. Eva took it gingerly, her green eyes widening behind her round frames. "A Veil Compass," she breathed. "I’ve read about these. They’re crafted by Shade artisans. They don't point north." "Then what do they point to?" "Rifts. Portals. Weaknesses in the fabric." Eva looked up, her face serious. "Where was the needle pointing when you picked it up?" Quinn thought back. The needle had been spinning, but the momentum had been dying. It had been twitching erratically. "It was… jittering. Like it was confused." "Or surrounded," Eva said. She turned the compass in her hand. As she did, the needle snapped into focus, locking rigidly onto the empty space directly behind Quinn. Quinn spun around, flashlight raised. The tunnel yawned black and empty. Nothing but the curve of the brickwork and the disappearing tracks. But the air felt heavier there, charged with a static that made the hair on Quinn’s arms stand up. "The Market is gone," Eva said quietly. "The full moon was two days ago. They moved on. But they left a door open. A draft." Quinn looked back at the body, then at the compass. The pieces were sliding into place, forming a picture she didn't want to see. Thorne hadn't just been murdered. He had been discarded. "He wasn't a victim of a robbery, Evie," Quinn said, her voice low and hard. "And he didn't fall. Look at his expression." They both looked down at Julian Thorne. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the soot-stained ceiling. There was no terror there, though. No pain. His face was frozen in a look of absolute, beatific wonder. "He saw something," Quinn said. "He saw whatever was in that tunnel." "And it took him," Eva finished. "Or took his essence." "This wasn't a violent struggle," Quinn deduced, pacing the tight circle. "He came down here voluntarily. He had the compass. He was looking for the Market. He found something else instead." "A predator," Eva said. "Something that tracks the compass signals." Quinn took the compass back from Eva. The needle was still locked on that dark spot in the tunnel. She felt a strange pull, a temptation to walk into the darkness and see what was waiting. She stamped it down, locking it away inside the steel box of her mind. That was how good cops got themselves killed. "If this thing tracks rifts," Quinn said, "and Thorne was using it, then he wasn't the hunter. He was the bait." "The colleague mentioned in the report—the uniform who found the body," Quinn said suddenly. "Where is he?" "Elder? He said he was sick. Threw up by the exit. Went back to the surface." Quinn nodded. "Sensory overload. People react to high-frequency electromagnetic fields with nausea. Disorientation." She looked at Eva. "Whatever killed Thorne is still leaving a signature." "We need to leave," Eva said, her voice trembling. "Now. Before the door swings shut." Quinn looked at the compass one last time. She slipped it into her pocket, the cold brass pressing against her thigh. It wasn't standard procedure to pocket evidence, but this wasn't a standard case. This was the lead she had been waiting three years for. "Not yet," Quinn said. "We bag the body. We secure the scene. And then we find out who sold Julian Thorne his ticket to hell." She clicked off her flashlight, plunging them into darkness for a heartbeat before switching it back on, the beam steady and unyielding. "Eva, get the kit. We have work to do." Eva hesitated, looking fearfully into the mouth of the tunnel, then nodded. She adjusted her glasses, tucked her hair behind her ear, and moved to obey. Quinn watched her go, her hand drifting to the worn leather watch on her wrist. Time was running out. She could feel it in the heavy air, in the wrong color of the blood on the tiles. The game was afoot, and for the first time in three years, Detective Harlow Quinn felt like she was finally holding the right cards.