Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQM5PY7ZZNRXAKJE5R05GB

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped onto the cracked platform of Camden’s abandoned Tube station, her boots echoing against the silent rails. The tunnel lights flickered, revealing peeling posters and rust-stained walls. She brushed a lock of steel-gray hair from her forehead, eyes narrowing beneath the harsh glow. A thin sheet of mist curled along the tracks, low and insistent, as if reluctant to dissipate. Quinn checked her leather‐strapped watch—worn from years on duty—and noted the time: just past midnight. The station had been sealed months ago, but someone had broken in. She inhaled once, tasted damp stone and something coppery in the air. A body lay half on the tracks, half on the platform, legs splayed like a puppet whose strings had snapped. Detective Eva Kowalski crouched beside the corpse, her round glasses catching the pale halo of Quinn’s torch. Eva’s curly red hair framed her pale, freckled face, and she pushed a loose strand behind her left ear. In her satchel, Quinn suspected, lay tomes on occult runes and forbidden rituals. Tonight, that knowledge might come in handy. “Male, mid‐thirties,” Eva said, unzipping a chalk marker. “Head trauma—blunt force. Death likely instantaneous.” She drew a chalk outline around the victim’s boots. “No sign of struggle. Could be a drunk falling.” Quinn knelt a few feet away, boots scuffing the grit. She didn’t see shattered glass, didn’t hear a thrown punch. The victim’s forehead was caved inward, dark fluid crusted around the edges. But the indentation was too neat, too shallow for a heavy fall. Her jaw tightened. “Drunk?” Quinn’s voice was cool. “He’s wearing polished dress shoes, tie knotted tight. Not stumbling drunk.” She bent closer, scanning the victim’s collar. A small brass object lay half-hidden beneath his jawbone: a compact compass, face etched with sigils curling like vines. She lifted it with a gloved finger. The compass needle quivered, then snapped north—toward the far end of the platform—where the tunnel descended into shadow. The casing bore a patina of verdigris, polished around the edges from constant handling. Quinn’s heart tripped at the knowledge: Veil Compass. Crafted by a Shade artisan, sold only in the underground market. The black market that supposedly vanished. Eva’s gaze followed Quinn’s. “A novelty item,” she said, voice light. “Tourist junk. Maybe he picked it up from a collector.” Quinn held the compass level. It pointed rigidly down the track. “This isn’t a collector’s trinket. These sigils protect the bearer from—” She cut off, mindful of bystanders. “From things not of this world.” A cold draft brushed Quinn’s neck. She checked her left wrist, the leather strap of her watch snug against her skin. She remembered DS Morris, partner lost three years ago in a case that defied explanation. She felt the old ache of guilt: she had missed signs then. Not again. “The head wound,” she said softly, returning the compass to the platform. “It’s too clean. No bone shards. No blood spray on the platform. He didn’t fall. He was placed.” Eva frowned. “You think someone laid him here? To stage a scene?” “Someone—or something.” Quinn stood, letting the torch sweep the tunnel walls. Away from the weak station lights, the darkness seemed to pulse, alive. She noted the faint scratch marks on the rail ties, shallow grooves as if something dragged toe‐first. The marks stopped at the victim’s body. There were no marks past his feet. “Look.” Quinn crouched by the rail. “These grooves—they’re consistent with a boot toe scraping wood. But there’s no scuff on his soles.” She peeled back the man’s polished shoes. The leather was immaculate, not a single scrape. “He wasn’t walking here.” Eva knelt beside her, lips parted. She glanced up at Quinn. “But the station’s sealed. How did they move him?” She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. “No entry sign, no footprints aside from his.” Quinn’s brown eyes flicked along the tunnel. The compass needle trembled again. “Through a rift.” She heard herself say it, felt the old surge of adrenaline: Portal. Supernatural breach. The veil between worlds thinning here. Eva swallowed. “A rift? Quinn, we don’t have proof of—” Quinn stood abruptly and moved to the edge of the platform. She set the torch on the ground, pointing its beam into the tunnel depths. She reached out, fingertips brushing the cool stone. “Feel that?” she asked. “The temperature drops here. Normally this station stays dank, but not cold. This is old stone, sealed for decades.” She passed her hand through the mist. It coalesced around her fingers, lingering like smoke. “Something opened.” A rumble echoed from the far end. Quinn’s pulse quickened. She retraced her steps, crouched beside the body again. The victim’s jacket sleeve rode up, revealing a pale wrist. Three parallel slashes—too straight, too precise—lay just above the bone. No blood oozed; the cuts were cauterized, crisp as if seared shut. Eva peered at the wounds. “He must have cut himself after falling. Maybe to get help.” Quinn’s gaze hardened. “No. These are ritual scars. They line up with glyphs I’ve seen in Shade texts. Protection wards, inverted.” She dabbed her glove on the platform; the dark smear glowed faintly under her torch’s UV setting. “This is residue—no ordinary blood. High copper content. Alchemical.” Eva’s breath caught. She fished in her satchel, produced a small vial. “I keep reagents for spectral analysis.” She knelt, uncorked it, touched a drop to the smear. The fluid flared blue then vanished. “Supernatural ichor,” she whispered. Quinn nodded, folding her arms. “The compass pointed toward that. I’ve seen that glow before. There was something down here three years ago when Morris vanished. I thought it was a gas leak.” A jagged memory pricked at her ribs: Morris’s last broadcast, voice trembling, shouting about a door in the wall. “This isn’t a drowning, accident, or a mugging gone wrong. He was delivered—beyond our realm—to be sacrificed.” Quinn swept the torch back toward Eva. “The stains on the wall over there—” She stepped over the chalk outline, knelt by a smear of dark crimson mottled with ash. “They’re not blood. Burnt residue, like flesh singed and scraped. Someone—or something—tore into him.” Eva’s round glasses fogged. “Then who would do this?” Quinn glanced toward the tunnel. The compass needle spun, then locked north. “Shades. They traffic bodies when the market moves. This station is the Veil Market’s current locus. Someone bought a ticket on a rift, paid with a life.” Eva’s voice trembled. “My God. The market still moves?” Quinn rose, shoulders squared. “Full moon was last night. It relocated here under Camden. Whoever owns this station opened the breach. We’ve only just found the aftermath.” She snapped on rubber gloves, slipped the compass into an evidence bag. The sigils gleamed once, like embers in the plastic. Eva helped dust for fingerprints on the compass casing. “Only one set—his. No others.” She frowned. “That means… someone wore gloves.” “Everyone here is careful.” Quinn scanned the station: no civilians, no other officers yet. Only cratered shadows and the hush of ancient tunnels. “They didn’t want to leave a trace. But they left magic.” She stood, chest tight. “Call forensics on the residue. Get me a spectral analyst from the Museum. There’s more I need to see.” She cocked her head toward the tunnel mouth. “Examine those grooves again. We need to map where the rift led. And pull station blueprints—this station wasn’t even on the line schedule. They never run trains here.” Eva blinked. “We’ll find it, Harlow. I’ll start cross‐referencing the occult archives.” Quinn nodded once, face set. She stepped onto the first rail tie, balanced there, scanning the darkness as if she could chase the portal down the tracks. Her watch ticked against her wrist. She breathed in. The mist curled around her ankles, a thin tendril of warning. The Veil had opened. Someone had paid with a life. Somewhere in the shadows, Quinn could almost hear Morris’s voice, terrified and pleading. She swallowed hard. This time, she would follow the signs. This time, she wouldn’t be too late.