Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSPKN78W7J66QJWR41C0X

The bone token was cold, slick with something viscous that dried into a film of chalk-gray on Harlow’s thumb. She slid it into her pocket, the worn leather of her watch strap brushing against her wrist, grounding her in the damp, metallic smell of the Camden Tube station. The air here tasted different than the world above—thinner, charged with the electric hum of something dormant, waiting for the full moon. Below the rusted tracks of the Northern Line, the cavernous space of the abandoned station had been unmasked as the Veil Market. It wasn’t the bustling, dangerous nightmare Harlow had expected. It was a strange, tilted world of candlelight and velvet. Merchants huddled under thick cloaks, selling dust that glittered like starlight and vials of liquid that smoked. Harlow moved with the precision of a recce patrol, scanning the perimeter. Her boots didn’t make a sound on the gritty concrete. She spotted the marker flag hanging from a rusted signpole across the way: a crimson rag fluttering in a vent current. *Target identified.* As she navigated the maze of crates and stalls, she saw the small cluster of people surrounding a temporary barrier of reinforced glass. Harlow stepped over the threshold and felt the temperature drop a notch. “Detective Quinn,” a voice called out. Harlow turned to find Eva Kowalski standing behind her, clutching the strap of her worn leather satchel. Eva looked pale, her curly red hair plastered to her forehead with sweat despite the chill. She adjusted her round glasses, her fingers trembling slightly—a nervous habit she never quite broke. “Still paranoid, Evie,” Harlow said, keeping her voice level. She checked her watch. 03:12 AM. The market would close at the first sign of dawn. “I’m not paranoid,” Eva replied, her green eyes wide behind the glass, darting toward the huddled figures. “I’m here for the research. My thesis depends on documenting the ecosystem of these anomalies.” Harlow gestured for Eva to stay back. “Stick close. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.” Eva swallowed hard. “You should let forensics handle this. It’s… the energy is heavy.” Harlow didn’t respond. She skirted the edges of the glass barrier, her military bearing tense, her jawline set. The body inside was slumped against a table, half-obscured by a veil of black silk. It was a male victim, face-down. “DS Morris?” Harlow checked the form. No. This was new. She pulled on her latex gloves, the snap of the latex echoing too loudly in the quiet tunnel. She knelt beside the body, ignoring Eva’s sharp intake of breath. “Don’t look at the wound,” Harlow said, her eyes sweeping the scene. “Tell me what you see outside the body.” Eva leaned closer, shielding her eyes. “The room. The walls are… pulsing. Like a heartbeat.” “Concrete,” Harlow said. “The ventilation grates are covered in sodium vapor, masking the ambient light. It makes the shadows look like they’re moving.” “It’s not just that,” Eva insisted, her voice rising. “Look at the prism of light on the table. There’s a rift open. I can feel it. It’s purging him.” Harlow looked at the table. It was clean. No prism, no rift. Just a splinter of wood and a half-empty flask of whiskey. “There’s no rift. That light is coming from the reflection in the bottle.” Eva flinched as if struck. “I’m telling you, his aura is flickering out. He’s… he’s being erased.” Harlow turned her attention to the body’s back. A dark, jagged gash marred the man’s coat, a classic murder wound. However, the coat was so saturated with the dark, viscous liquid pooling beneath him that the severity of the tear was impossible to judge. Harlow ran a gloved finger along the edge of the wound. It was clean. Too clean. “Why is the blood sprayed on the glass, Evie, but not on the table?” Harlow asked, standing up and circling the body. Eva turned in a slow circle. “Maybe the glass projected a barrier? Magic?” Harlow stepped to the glass panel. She pressed her palm against it. No condensation. No prints. The glass was pristine. “If there was a barrier, there would be residue. And there wouldn't be a murder weapon sitting on the floor just three feet away.” She reached down and picked up a large hunting knife. The hilt was wrapped in duct tape. No magic runes, no runes of divination. “This isn't a portal murder,” Harlow said, tossing the knife aside. “It’s a hit.” “It couldn’t be a hit,” Eva said, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You can’t shoot a man through a ghost.” Harlow froze. “Did you say shoot?” “Yes! A projectile—like an arrow, but vibrating on a frequency that breaks the laws of physics.” Eva took a step back, bumping into a rack of dried herbs. “You should leave. Before he… before he pulls himself back together.” Harlow frowned. She looked at the body again. She focused on the entry point of the wound. It was high on the left shoulder. For a wound that deep, the bullet wound would be at a perpendicular angle relative to the torso. This angle… it was upward. Harlow walked to the table again. She reached out and lifted the black silk veil. Underneath, the body wasn't a corpse. It was a doll. A high-quality, grotesque simulacrum made of beeswax and synthetic skin. A cold sensation pricked Harlow’s nape. “Eva,” Harlow said, her voice low. “Where is the real victim?” Eva froze. “What?” “The man we’re looking for,” Harlow said, turning to her. “Tell me where he is.” Eva’s face went slack. “He’s… he’s right here.” “He’s made of wax, Evie,” Harlow said, moving with sudden, predatory speed. She grabbed Eva by the collar of her coat, slamming her back against the rack of herbs. “Where is the dealer? The guy with the tick marks on his wrist?” Eva gasped, her hand flying to her left ear, tucking a curl behind it. Her eyes darted wildly around the tunnel. “You don’t understand. The Shadow King… he eats the souls. The wax is the vessel.” “Stop with the mumbo-jumbo,” Harlow growled, using her height to intimidate the smaller woman. “I’ve been a detective for eighteen years, Evie. I know a wax dummy when I see one. Now, tell me the truth before I book you for obstruction.” Eva slumped, her bravado melting away into panic. “He’s… he’s in the crate. The one with the iron branding. Number 7.” Harlow’s eyes flicked to the large wooden crate marked with a galvanized iron logo, sitting three stalls down. The lid was slightly ajar. “Thanks,” Harlow said. Before Eva could recover, Harlow turned and sprinted toward the crate. She reached the stall, kicking the door open with her boot. Inside the crate was the dealer. He was alive, bound with zip ties, his mouth gagged, looking more terrified than any Shadow King victim should be. Harlow vaulted over the edge, grabbing the man by the shirtfront and hauling him up. “Detective Quinn?” he wheezed. “Keep your head down,” Harlow commanded. She pulled the man out of the crate and toward the door. As they moved, Harlow looked back at Eva, who was still standing frozen in the darkness. The market was quieting, the vendors packing up their stalls. “The compass,” Harlow called out. “Put the compass on your satchel. It points to rifts.” Eva blinked, her hand fumbling in the leather strap of her bag. She produced the small brass compass with the etched sigils. The needle spun wildly for a moment before locking onto a point behind the table where the wax dummy had been. “That’s where he went,” Eva whispered. “He didn’t go anywhere,” Harlow said, pressing the dealer into the shadows of the tunnel as they neared the exit zone. “He’s been moved, Evie. Every step of the way. You were just looking at the magic, instead of looking at the miles on the floor.”