Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQHR54GBDMFYHBCNT4RMNW

The air in the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden tasted of wet rust and stale ozone, a metallic tang that coated the back of Detective Harlow Quinn's throat. She clicked the beam of her torch, the light cutting through the gloom to reveal peeling tiles that once spelled out a station name long scrubbed from the maps. Eighteen years on the Met had taught her that crime scenes usually smelled of blood, piss, or fear. This place smelled of something older, something that made the hair on her arms stand up despite the chill dampness seeping through her coat. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, a reflexive check of time that grounded her when the world felt off. The циферблат glowed faintly in the dark, the hands ticking with a precision she demanded of herself and rarely found in others. Her boots crunched over broken glass and debris as she moved toward the center of the platform, where the forensic team had already cordoned off an area with bright yellow tape that looked ludicrously mundane against the shadowed arches of the tunnel. "Detective," a uniformed officer called out, his voice echoing too loudly in the hollow space. "Over here. We've got a body." Quinn approached the perimeter, her brown eyes scanning the ground before she even looked at the victim. The dirt was disturbed, but not in the chaotic scuffle of a struggle. The footprints were deliberate, spaced with a rhythm that suggested walking, not running. And then there were the marks beside them—deep gouges in the hard-packed earth that didn't match any shoe tread she knew. They looked like claw marks, yet too symmetrical, too geometric. DS Miller, a young man with too much enthusiasm and not enough experience, stepped out from behind the tape, holding a evidence bag containing a shard of blue glass. "We think it's a drug deal gone wrong, Ma'am. Found traces of an unknown substance on the victim's lips. Hallucinogen, maybe. Place is a known squat for addicts." Quinn stopped just short of the tape, her sharp jawline tightening. She looked past Miller to the body lying on the cold concrete. It was a young man, dressed in clothes that were far too expensive for a tunnel dweller—a silk shirt, tailored trousers, now stained with dirt and a dark, viscous fluid that wasn't quite blood. His eyes were open, staring at the vaulted ceiling, pupils dilated so wide the iris was invisible. "Hallucinogen," Quinn repeated, her voice flat, stripped of inflection. She ducked under the tape, ignoring Miller's protest about contamination. "Look at his hands, Miller." Miller blinked, shifting the evidence bag. "What about them?" "No defensive wounds. No bruising on the knuckles. He didn't fight back." She crouched beside the body, the dampness of the platform immediately seeping into her knees. She pulled a pen from her pocket, using the tip to gently lift the man's left hand. The skin was pale, almost translucent, and beneath the fingernails, there was a fine, silver dust. "And look at the ground around him. No struggle. He stood here, waited, and then..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the wall behind the body. The brickwork there was scorched, but not by fire. The mortar had dissolved into a fine black powder in a perfect circle, three feet in diameter. Inside the circle, the bricks were intact, but they hummed. It was a sensation more than a sound, a vibration that rattled Quinn's teeth and made the scar tissue on her shoulder ache. Three years ago, DS Morris had died in a warehouse fire that burned blue and cold, leaving no ash, only this same strange silence. The official report called it a gas main explosion. Quinn knew better. She had seen the way Morris's eyes had widened in terror before the end, whispering about shadows that moved against the light. "This isn't a drug den," Quinn said, standing up and brushing the dust from her trousers. "This is a transaction point." "A transaction?" Miller frowned, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in a nervous habit that reminded her uncomfortably of someone else. "For what?" "Something that doesn't appear on any toxicology screen you've ever run." Quinn turned her attention back to the gouges in the dirt. They radiated outward from the scorched circle. "Someone came through here. Or something did." "You're talking about squatters with flashy pyrotechnics," Miller dismissed, though his grip on the evidence bag tightened. "Come on, Guv. It's Camden. Weird stuff happens every night. We need to focus on the ID, the tox reports, the CCTV from the street above." "There is no CCTV down here, Miller. And the street above doesn't lead to this platform unless you know how to knock." Quinn's voice dropped, becoming dangerous. "I've been tracking a pattern. Three disappearances in the last month, all near construction sites or abandoned infrastructure. All victims had financial resources and no known enemies. They didn't vanish; they were taken to a market." "A market?" Miller laughed, a short, brittle sound. "In a abandoned Tube station? You sounds like you've been reading too many of those fantasy paperbacks your partner used to— The air in the station shifted instantly. The temperature plummeted, sucking the warmth from Quinn's bones. The hum from the scorched circle intensified, rising to a whine that set her teeth on edge. The shadows in the corner of the platform seemed to lengthen, detaching themselves from the walls and pooling on the floor like spilled ink. "Get back," Quinn ordered, her hand instinctively going to the service weapon at her hip, though she knew bullets were useless against whatever memory was clawing at the edge of her mind. Miller stumbled back, his face pale. "What the hell is that?" From the darkness beyond the platform edge, a figure emerged. She was small, barely five-foot-four, with a cascade of curly red hair that seemed to catch the dim light of the forensic lamps. She wore round glasses that reflected the eerie glow of the scorched circle, and a worn leather satchel hung heavy at her side, bulging with books. Eva Kowalski. Aurora's friend. The woman Quinn had been watching for weeks, suspecting her connection to the clique that operated in the city's blind spots. Eva didn't look afraid. She looked annoyed. She tucked a stray curl behind her left ear, her green eyes locking onto Quinn with an intensity that made the detective hesitate. "You're late, Detective," Eva said, her voice clear and cutting through the rising whine. "And you're standing in the residue." "Residue?" Quinn kept her stance wide, ready to move. "Step away from the body, Ms. Kowalski. You're obstructing a police investigation." "The investigation is already compromised because you're looking at it like a murder," Eva countered, stepping closer. She ignored the yellow tape, kicking it aside as if it were cobweb. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small brass object. It was a compass, the casing covered in a patina of verdigris, the face etched with symbols that hurt Quinn's eyes to look at directly. The needle wasn't pointing north; it was spinning wildly before snapping rigid, pointing straight at the scorched circle on the wall. "This is a Veil Compass," Eva explained, holding it up. The needle trembled, vibrating with the same frequency as the air in the tunnel. "It points to rifts. Portals. The boundary between here and the Veil Market." "Veil Market," Quinn repeated, the words tasting like ash. "Is that what you call it?" "It's what it is," Eva said, her gaze shifting to the body. "This man didn't die from a drug overdose, Detective. He tried to buy a memory. A specific one. But he didn't have the right currency, and the vendor... well, the vendors here don't accept refunds." Quinn looked from the compass to the young woman, then back to the body. The silver dust under the victim's nails. The geometric claw marks. The lack of struggle. The pieces clicked together with a terrifying clarity that she had been fighting against for three years. This wasn't just criminal activity; it was a sub-economy running parallel to London, fueled by things she couldn't name but could feel in the marrow of her bones. "You knew he was coming here," Quinn accused, her voice low. "I knew someone was trying to open a door," Eva corrected, tapping the glass face of the compass. "I came to close it before the things on the other side decided to come through permanently. You're looking for a killer, Detective Quinn. But down here, sometimes the crime isn't the death. It's the crossing." Quinn holstered her weapon slowly, her military precision warring with the supernatural reality unfolding before her. She looked at the scorched circle, then at Eva's earnest, freckled face. The skepticism that had armored her for nearly two decades was cracking, letting in a cold, terrifying truth. "Tell me about the currency," Quinn said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "And tell me about Morris." Eva's expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. "That," she said, closing the compass with a sharp click that silenced the humming in the air, "is a conversation for somewhere with fewer ears. And fewer shadows." As if in response, the shadows in the corner of the platform surged forward, swallowing the light. Quinn didn't flinch. She stepped forward, placing herself between Eva and the encroaching dark. "Then talk fast," Quinn said, her eyes never leaving the darkness. "Because I'm not letting anyone else vanish on my watch."