Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQXT2BDWKM8Z8FXSYVQ39M

The air down here didn't smell like London. It lacked the distinctive exhaust-and-grease signature of the surface, replaced instead by a stagnant, metallic chill that seeped through Harlow Quinn’s wool coat. She paused at the bottom of the service stairs, her boots resting on cracked Victorian tile. Above, the hum of Camden High Street was a distant, rhythmic vibration; here, the silence was heavy, absolute. Harlow checked her watch, the worn leather strap digging into her wrist. 02:14 hours. Three hours since the call came in. She adjusted her cuffs, her movements crisp, bearing the ingrained precision of her eighteen years on the force. Three years since she lost Morris, and she still checked her perimeter first, even underground. "Detective Quinn?" The voice was soft, hesitant. Harlow looked up. Standing near the yellow police tape that cordoned off the old platform was a young woman clutching a worn leather satchel like a shield. Eva Kowalski. The civilian consultant from the British Museum. She looked out of place in the gloom—her curly red hair a bright, unnatural splash of color against the soot-stained brickwork. She pushed her round glasses up her nose, then tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, a nervous tic Harlow cataloged instantly. "You're late," Harlow said, stepping under the tape. "The station entrance moves," Eva replied, her voice echoing slightly. "Or, well, the path to it does. It’s a full moon, Detective. The Veil Market is... active." Harlow ignored the mystical jargon. She gestured toward the scene. "Talk me through it before the CSIs finish trampling whatever secrets are left." Eva fell into step beside her as they approached the body. The victim lay sprawled on the disused tracks a few yards from the platform edge. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in a suit that cost more than Harlow made in a month. His face was frozen in a rictus of terror, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling where a tangle of exposed pipes dripped condensation. "His name is Julian Thorne," Eva said, her trembling hand pointing toward the body. "He was a collector. Illegal antiquities." "Cause of death?" "That’s the problem," Eva said. She stopped at the edge of the platform, hugging her satchel tighter. "There isn't one. No trauma, no signs of strangulation, no injection sites. It’s like his life was just... switched off." Harlow narrowed her eyes. She stepped down onto the ballast, the loose gravel crunching loudly under her weight. She crouched beside the body, blocking out the uniformed officers standing in the distance. She leaned in close, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne and the sharp, copper tang that haunted every crime scene. "Eva, shine your light on his hands," Harlow commanded. Eva fumbled with a heavy flashlight, directing the beam toward Thorne’s clenched right fist. "Open it," Harlow said. Eva hesitated. "I shouldn't touch the—" "Wear gloves or use a pen. Just open it." Eva produced a latex glove with shaking hands and gently pried the dead man's fingers apart. Nestled in the palm was a small, brass object. Harlow picked it up with a pen, examining it under the flashlight's beam. It was a compass, the casing covered in a greenish patina of verdigris, the face etched with strange, angular sigils that seemed to squirm in the shifting light. "A Veil Compass," Eva whispered, leaning over Harlow’s shoulder. "It’s a tool for navigating the currents between realms. It points toward the nearest rift." "And why would a dead black market dealer be holding a compass?" Harlow asked, turning the object over. "To escape," Eva suggested. "He must have tried to flee through a portal when the deal went wrong. But look at the needle." Harlow looked. The needle was spinning lazily, counter-clockwise, refusing to settle. "It shouldn't be doing that," Eva said, her tone rising. "Not down here. The resonance is all wrong. It means he died near a massive source of energy, or..." She trailed off, tucking her hair behind her ear again. "Or something took him." Harlow stood up, brushing grit from her trousers. She looked at the scene with the cold detachment of a surgeon. "Something took him. That’s your professional opinion?" "It’s the only explanation that fits the lore," Eva insisted. "The Veil Market attracts entities. If he tried to cheat one of them—" "He was murdered, Eva. By a person." Harlow gestured to the surroundings. "This is an abandoned Tube station, not a gateway to hell. It has walls, a floor, and a ceiling. It has entry points." "The entry requirement is a bone token," Eva countered, pointing to a small, white chip near the victim’s foot. "Thorne had one. He paid to get in. But the supernatural ecosystem here is delicate. You don't just kill someone in the Market without consequences. The wards would have triggered." "Then explain the body." "I told you," Eva said, frustration creeping into her voice. "It wasn't a physical attack. It was an extraction. A soul drain. Look at the static in the air. Can't you feel it? It’s dry. Ozone." Harlow felt it—a prickling on the back of her neck. She remembered the night Morris died. That same dry, electric silence before his body hit the pavement. She pushed the memory down, locking it away in the cold iron box in her mind. Feelings were evidence of nothing; facts were everything. She walked the perimeter of the body, scanning the ballast. "If he was drained by a ghost, why is there a bruise on his left knuckle?" Eva blinked. "What?" Harlow pointed. "Defensive wound. A fresh contusion. Skin broken." She moved to the other side of the tracks. "And there. Scrapes on the soles of his shoes. Not consistent with walking. Consistent with being dragged." "Dragged?" Eva frowned. "But the lividity... if he was moved, the blood pooling would be—" "Exactly," Harlow cut in. "The blood is pooled in his back and legs. That means he died lying down. But look at the dirt on his lapels." She pointed to the dark smudges on the expensive suit. "He was face down in the mud at some point. Then he was rolled onto his back." Eva stepped closer, her academic curiosity momentarily overriding her fear. "So... he was killed elsewhere and staged?" "Or killed there and moved to look like a ritual sacrifice," Harlow said. She walked back to the platform, her eyes tracing the line of the yellow tape. "Who found him?" "A scavenger. A Shade. He reported it to the liaison, who flagged it to us." "The scavenger take anything?" Eva hesitated. "Maybe. Shades are opportunists. Why?" "Because our victim is missing a watch." Harlow pointed to Thorne’s left wrist. There was a pale strip of untanned skin, a sharp contrast to the sun-bronzed forearm. "A Tan line. Expensive watch, recently removed. Robbery doesn't fit with your 'soul extraction' theory, does it?" Eva looked at the wrist, then back at the spinning compass in Harlow’s hand. "Maybe the killer took it as a trophy?" "Maybe," Harlow said. She held up the compass again, studying the sigils. "Or maybe this is a prop." She turned the compass over. On the back, scratched faintly into the brass, were initials. *J.T.* "He owned it," Harlow said. "It wasn't planted on him." She looked around the station, her gaze sharp, calculating. "If this thing points to rifts, and it’s spinning like a top..." "It means there's one nearby," Eva finished. "Or there’s something interfering with the magnetic field," Harlow countered. She looked up at the ceiling, following the route of the old tunnel. "Eva, check the schematics of this station. What runs directly above us?" "Uh, the Northern Line, probably. Why?" "Electrical cables. High voltage." Harlow looked down at the tracks. "Thorne wasn't killed by magic, Eva. He was lured here. The noise of the train would mask the gunshot. The compass..." She paused. The needle suddenly stopped spinning. It locked hard to the right, pointing not toward a mystical rift, but toward a dark, service tunnel recessed in the brickwork behind the victim. "That wasn't there before," Eva breathed. "Because the train passed," Harlow said, realizing the connection. "The vibration shook the debris loose." She drew her service weapon, the familiar weight comforting in her hand. "Stay here." "Detective, you can't just—" "Quiet," Harlow hissed. She moved toward the dark recess, stepping carefully to avoid crunching the ballast. As she approached, she saw it—a scuff mark on the brick where someone had braced themselves. And lying in the shadows, half-buried in dust, was a small, velvet watch box. She knelt, keeping her eyes on the tunnel mouth. She used her pen to flip the box open. Empty. "He didn't lose the watch in a struggle," Harlow said, her voice low and hard. "He traded it." "To who?" Eva asked from the safety of the platform. "To the person hiding in that tunnel." Harlow stood up, leveling her weapon at the darkness. "Thorne came here to buy something with this compass and his watch. But the seller decided to take everything." The darkness in the tunnel seemed to thicken, coalescing into a shape that wasn't quite human. Harlow felt the hair on her arms stand up, the ozone smell suddenly overwhelming. She didn't believe in ghosts, but she knew evil when she saw it. "Step out," Harlow commanded, her voice echoing off the damp walls. "Slowly." From the shadows, a pair of eyes glowed—not with reflected light, but with an internal, sickly yellow hue. The figure that emerged wore a tattered coat, but its hands were too long, the fingers too many. "A detective," the thing hissed, its voice sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "How tedious." Harlow didn't blink. Her finger tightened on the trigger. "You're under arrest for the murder of Julian Thorne. And for littering in a heritage site." The thing smiled, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. It raised one of those unnatural hands, and the Veil Compass in Harlow’s pocket suddenly seared hot against her leg. "I don't think so," the entity said. "Harlow, get back!" Eva screamed from the platform. Harlow didn't retreat. She shifted her stance, planting her feet. She had lost Morris to the unexplained; she wasn't losing this one. The evidence was right here. It wasn't magic. It was just a crime. And crimes could be solved. "On the ground," Harlow repeated, cocking the hammer. "Now."