Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQNP2T1SC29R24R82NSWX1

The air in the abandoned tube station hung thick and stale, a ghost of a thousand past commutes. Water dripped somewhere in the echoing blackness beyond the crime scene tape, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant hum of the city above. Detective Harlow Quinn, her salt-and-pepper hair a close-cropped cap, stepped over a fallen support beam, her boots crunching on loose gravel. She moved with military precision, her dark eyes sweeping the cavernous space. This was the Veil Market, or what remained of its last iteration. Every full moon it relocated, a ghost town of illicit trade until the next cycle. Now, it was just a grimy, forgotten tunnel, the only evidence of its recent occupation a scattering of discarded human teeth – bone tokens, the street-level entrance fee. She pushed them around with the toe of her boot, a grim reminder of the peculiar world she was forced to navigate. Most of the stalls had been packed up in a hurry, leaving behind their ghostly imprints on the dust-caked ground. The scent of ozone, a familiar calling card of supernatural activity, still lingered, faint but undeniable. Quinn’s gaze lingered on a spot where a small brass compass with a verdigris patina lay half-buried in the rubble. A Veil Compass. Its needle, etched with protective sigils, spun erratically, pointing nowhere in particular. It was a useless trinket to the uniformed officers, a piece of supernatural junk, but Quinn knew better. She felt the familiar prickle beneath her skin, the subtle shift in the air that only she seemed to notice. She recognized the signatures of a struggle, a battle that had spilled over from the unseen world. “You’re late, Detective Quinn.” The voice belonged to Detective Inspector Eva Kowalski, who emerged from the gloom, her curly red hair a vibrant splash of color against the drab background. Eva, with her perpetually worn leather satchel full of books, was a fixture at these peculiar crime scenes, a sort of reluctant expert on the occult. She pushed her round glasses up the bridge of her nose, a nervous habit that Quinn had come to associate with Eva’s less-than-convincing attempts at playing the hardened detective. “Traffic,” Quinn said, a lie. She’d been reviewing the file on DS Morris, her former partner. Three years, and still no answers. Only more questions, questions that led her deeper into this strange, hidden world. “Right. And the sudden surge of spectral activity in Regent’s Park wasn’t a factor at all.” Eva chuckled dryly, tucking a stray curl behind her left ear. “Don’t worry, the perp left plenty of breadcrumbs for us to follow.” Quinn ignored the sarcasm, moving deeper into the scene. The forensics team, looking decidedly out of their depth, were already bagging evidence, their gloved hands gingerly handling what appeared to be dried blood mixed with something that shimmered feebly in the beam of their flashlights. It pulsed with a faint, otherworldly luminescence—ectoplasm. “What’s the official story?” Quinn asked, her sharp jaw tight. Eva consulted her notebook, flipping through pages with rapid precision. “Body found by a homeless man. Male, mid-thirties. Cause of death appears to be a single, precise cut to the jugular. No weapon at the scene. Standard procedure, for the most part.” “For the most part,” Quinn echoed. She knelt, examining the bloodstains. Too clean. Too precise. The victim hadn’t struggled, not in the way a man facing a knife would. The blood pattern on the ground was more like a spill than a spray. “Forensics thinks it’s a professional hit,” Eva continued, gesturing with a pencil. “Clean in and out. No signs of a struggle. Probably an internal market dispute gone bad. These underground types, they can be pretty ruthless.” Quinn stood, her gaze sweeping the area again. Her brown eyes narrowed. “No signs of a struggle, you say?” “That’s what it looks like,” Eva confirmed, adjusting her glasses again. “Unless you’re seeing something I’m not, Detective.” “I am,” Quinn said, her voice flat. She pointed to a faint scuff mark on the concrete, almost invisible in the gloom. “That’s a boot mark, distinct to this kind of rubble. And it was made *after* the blood hit the ground, not before. Someone dragged something here, or someone was dragged.” Eva peered at the scuff mark, then shrugged. “Maybe the body was moved. It happens.” “Moved, or positioned?” Quinn countered. She moved to the side, following an almost imperceptible trail of disturbed dust. It led not away from the body, but *towards* it, from a darker recess of the tunnel. “If the body was moved, why leave such a pristine trail that ends so conveniently at the ‘crime scene’?” She paused, spotting something else. A small, fragmented piece of obsidian, glinting dully. Not a natural fragment, not from a rockfall. This was carved, almost like a miniature blade. She picked it up, careful not to disturb possible prints. “And this isn’t consistent with a professional hit, Eva,” Quinn continued, turning the obsidian over in her palm. “A ‘clean hit’ implies a quick, surgical strike, then a vanishing act. This… this is something else.” She knelt again, this time closer to the victim. His eyes were wide open, a look of profound terror frozen on his face. Not the blank stare of a man surprised by a quick death. This was the fear of something seen, something known. “What else could it be?” Eva asked, a hint of frustration in her voice. “We’ve got a dead man, a clean cut, no weapon, and a known black market as the location. It screams assassination.” “Look at his hands,” Quinn instructed, not looking up. Eva bent down, her brow furrowed. “Clean. No defensive wounds.” “Exactly,” Quinn said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “No defensive wounds. Not even the faintest bruise. But look at his palms. The dust here, it’s a fine, almost silken powder. Unique to this specific part of the market, I’m told. But on his palms, there’s not a single speck. They’re clean, almost scrubbed.” Eva frowned, puzzled. “So he washed his hands before he died? Or someone washed them for him?” “Or,” Quinn said, standing and turning to face Eva, her eyes burning with a sudden, fierce deduction, “he wasn’t on the ground when he died. He was held. His body held upright, suspended. His hands never touched the ground.” Eva’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Suspended? What are you suggesting, Quinn? Levitation?” She managed a weak chuckle, but it died in her throat under Quinn’s unwavering stare. “The wound is precise, yes,” Quinn mused. “But it’s also deep, deeper than a conventional blade would go with such an absence of force. And the blood pattern, the way it’s settled… it's almost as if it’s been drawn out, rather than simply gushed. And the ectoplasm too. Not scattered, but focused.” She looked at the Veil Compass again, still spinning haphazardly, unable to lock onto anything. “The compass can’t get a fix because there’s no immediate rift, no lingering portal. But the energy signature is here, trapped. Because whatever happened here, it wasn’t just a simple killing. It was a ritual.” Eva cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “A ritual? Quinn, you’re jumping to conclusions. We don’t have enough evidence—” “We have a body positioned to look like a simple murder,” Quinn interrupted, her voice gaining momentum, “in a secret supernatural market. We have no signs of struggle, clean palms, a peculiar wound, and ectoplasm that seems to have been… funneled. And this.” She held up the piece of obsidian. “This isn't a weapon. It’s part of one. A broken piece of a ceremonial dagger, I’d wager. Used to channel something.” She walked over to the furthest wall of the tunnel, pushing aside a stack of rusty pipes. Behind them, on the grimy concrete, was a faint, almost invisible circle, etched into the dust. Within it, other smaller sigils, barely discernible. Someone had tried to clean them away, but not thoroughly enough. “This isn’t a hit, Eva,” Quinn stated, her voice quiet but firm. “This is a sacrifice. And whoever did it, they took something with them. Something powerful. And they wanted us to believe it was just a common shiv in the dark. They wanted to hide the true nature of the crime.” Eva knelt beside the etched circle, her freckled complexion paling slightly. She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small, specialized penlight, illuminating the faded sigils. Her fingers traced the lines, her nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear more pronounced than ever. “These… these are summoning sigils. Old High Kemetan. They’re for… an offering.” Quinn nodded. “Exactly. And that means we’re not looking for a killer. We’re looking for a summoner. Someone who needed an unwilling sacrifice, and then fabricated a crime scene to throw us off. But they made a mistake. They forgot that some of us… we know how to read between the lines. Or, in this case, between the bloodstains.” She looked down at the victim again, his terrified eyes still staring into the unseen. He hadn’t been murdered in the conventional sense. He’d been used. And a chill, colder than the damp air of the abandoned station, settled around Detective Harlow Quinn. She had a new case. And it was far more complex, and far more dangerous, than a simple hit in the Veil Market.