Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZTS3B9CTTTQMXHVD5K2S

The air beneath Camden tasted of copper and old rain, a stagnant breath held in the lungs of the abandoned Tube station for decades. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, the soles of her boots clicking against the cracked tiles with military precision. She checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. 03:14. The witching hour had passed, but the silence here felt heavier than mere latency. She paused at the edge of the platform, her brown eyes scanning the shadows. The Veil Market had been frozen mid-trade when the raid hit. Stalls draped in velvet and chainmail stood abandoned, their wares glittering under the harsh glare of the portable floodlights Quinn's team had erected. But her attention wasn't on the stalls. It was on the body lying near the track bed. Quinn crouched, the knees of her trousers stretching tight. The victim was a male, mid-thirties, dressed in robes that shimmered with a fabric she couldn't identify. No visible wounds. No blood. Just a stillness that looked less like death and more like suspension. Uniforms are calling it a heart attack, Detective. Quinn didn't turn. She knew the voice. Eva Kowalski stood behind her, clutching a worn leather satchel full of books against her chest like a shield. The younger woman's curly red hair was frizzed from the humidity, and she pushed her round glasses up the bridge of her nose with a nervous jerk of her hand. Quinn stood, smoothing her jacket. She towered over Eva by five inches, her sharp jaw set in a line that usually made suspects confess before the interview started. Heart attacks don't happen in underground black markets during a police raid, Kowalski. Not unless someone helped them along. Eva tucked a stray curl behind her left ear, a tic Quinn had noticed every time the pressure spiked. It's not a heart attack. Look at the skin. Quinn looked back down. She pulled a penlight from her pocket and clicked it on, sweeping the beam over the victim's exposed hands. The freckled complexion of the dead man was pale, yes, but there was a translucence to it, like wax paper held over a flame. Hypothermia? Quinn asked, though she knew the temperature down here was a steady fifteen degrees. Exsanguination of the soul, Eva corrected softly. Her green eyes were wide behind the lenses, reflecting the floodlights. He didn't die here, Detective. He was emptied. Quinn straightened, her spine cracking audibly. She walked a slow circle around the body. This was the problem with bringing in civilians, even ones with master's degrees from Oxford. They spoke in riddles when she needed facts. But Quinn had learned three years ago, when DS Morris vanished into thin air during a stakeout, that facts sometimes wore masks. Explain, Quinn said. The blood is wrong, Eva said, stepping closer to the body but keeping her distance from Quinn. There's no pooling. Rigor mortis is absent, but he's been dead for hours. I checked the lividity. It's... inconsistent. Quinn knelt again, pressing two fingers against the victim's neck. Cold. Stone cold. But the clothes were dry. If he had been outside in the London rain before being moved down here, there should be dampness. If he had died here, the struggle should have left marks on the floor. The tiles were pristine around the body, undisturbed dust settling in a perfect circle around the robes. He wasn't dragged, Quinn murmured. No, Eva said. He was placed. Quinn reached into her inner pocket and pulled out the Veil Compass. It was a small brass instrument, the casing covered in a patina of verdigris that stained her thumb whenever she handled it. The face was etched with protective sigils that seemed to shift if she looked at them too long. She held it flat in her palm. The needle didn't point north. It never did. It spun lazily, then jerked, settling on a point directly above the victim's chest. Quinn frowned. The Compass pointed toward the nearest supernatural rift or portal. If it was pointing down at the body, the energy wasn't coming from a door or a window. It was coming from him. Or what was left of him. This doesn't add up, Quinn said, her voice low. If he was emptied here, where's the residue? Your people always leave ash. Or smoke. Or something. Not this time, Eva said. She opened her satchel and withdrew a notebook, flipping pages rapidly. Her fingers trembled slightly. There's a type of extraction that leaves no trace. A vacuum seal. It happens when a portal closes around a living subject. Quinn snapped the compass shut. The metal clicked like a gunshot in the quiet station. A portal. Morris. The name surfaced in her mind unbidden, sharp and painful as a shiv. Three years ago, Morris had stood right where Quinn was standing. One moment he was briefing her on the perimeter, the next he was gone. No body. No blood. Just a gap in the world where a man used to be. She had spent eighteen years building a career on evidence, on chain of custody and forensic reports. But Morris had taught her that some things slipped through the cracks. If he was pulled through a rift, Quinn said, walking to the edge of the track bed. She shined her light into the tunnel. Darkness swallowed the beam within ten feet. Then why is the body here? Why not leave him on the other side? Because something went wrong, Eva said. She had moved closer, emboldened by Quinn's engagement. The extraction was interrupted. Maybe by the raid. Maybe by the market moving. Quinn checked her watch again. 03:22. The Veil Market moved locations every full moon. Tonight was the full moon. The schedule, Quinn said. The market moves tonight. It moves at dawn, Eva confirmed. But the energy spikes beforehand. If he was caught in the transition... Quinn looked back at the body. The lack of blood. The lack of struggle. The perfect circle of undisturbed dust. He hadn't been killed in the market. He had been deposited here because the market was rejecting him. He was cargo that didn't make the manifest. She holstered the compass and walked back to the body. She needed to see something specific. She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her belt and snapped them on. Leaning over, she lifted the hem of the victim's robe. His shoes were clean. Pristine leather, no scuffs, no mud. But the soles... Quinn turned his foot. The soles were wet. Not with rain, but with a viscous, clear fluid that evaporated as she watched. Sea water? Quinn asked. Brine from the Between, Eva corrected. Quinn stood up and pulled off the gloves. She looked at Eva, really looked at her. The younger woman was terrified, but she wasn't lying. Quinn had spent eighteen years reading liars. Eva's fear was for the situation, not for herself. You said he was emptied, Quinn said. I said his soul was extracted. The body is just a shell. Quinn looked at the dead man's face. The features were slack, empty. Like a house with the lights turned off. She thought of Morris. Had he been emptied too? Or had he just walked through a door she couldn't see? Bag him, Quinn called out to the uniforms waiting near the entrance. Her voice bounced off the tiled walls, authoritative and final. And seal the tunnel. I want forensics on that fluid before it vanishes. She turned to Eva. You're coming with me. Eva clutched her satchel tighter. To the station? To the morgue, Quinn said. She started walking toward the exit, her boots clicking on the tiles. If this was a vacuum seal extraction, I need to know what was inside him before he popped. Eva hurried to catch up, her shorter strides struggling to match Quinn's long, purposeful gait. Detective, if the market moves at dawn— Then we have until dawn to figure out who sent him, Quinn said. She didn't look back. She kept her eyes on the stairs leading up to the street, to the real world where laws mattered and evidence held weight. But she could feel the weight of the compass in her pocket, heavy and warm against her hip. The evidence didn't add up. Not yet. But Quinn had time. She had eighteen years of practice in finding the truth, and three years of hunger for the kind of truth that bled. She touched the leather strap of her watch, feeling the pulse of her own wrist beneath it. Alive. Present. For now.