Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR50N8MWBRP74CX5GMMM26

The rain in Camden never really washed anything clean; it only softened the grime, making the soot on the brickwork shine like oil slicks on wet pavement. Harlow Quinn hated the gloom, hated the way the artificial neon of the overhead signs buzzed and flickered, echoing the restless energy of the city above but with none of the warmth. She slipped the bone token into the crack of the ancient turnstile, the sudden *clack* sounding like a gunshot in the damp quiet of the tunnel. The barrier groaned, the metal teeth grinding shut behind her with a finality that felt like doors locking on a prison. She was stepping into the Veil Market now. The station beneath Camden had been a Northern Line terminus once, an architectural ghost of concrete and steel, but now it served a different purpose. Murmurs, the murmur of hushed transactions, washed over her like a tide. Behind the rusted iron fencing of the old platform, stalls had been erected in haphazard clusters, illuminated by the sickly yellow light of bare bulbs and the erratic glow of magicked lanterns. It smelled of ozone, old parchment, and unwashed bodies. Harlow’s stride was measured, the heavy tread of her Doc Martens dissipating into the shadows. She wasn't here for the trinkets or the grey market alchemy. She was here because the uniform police had managed to get lost in the labyrinth of alcoves and tunnels, unable to follow a trail that didn't run with gravity. She needed the grit of the ground truth, the scent of the crime in the air before the cleaners came to scrub it away. She spotted Eva Kowalski ten minutes later, or rather, the bundle of books and curves that was Eva. Eva was pressed against the rough plaster of a disused ticket booth, her posture defensive, her body angled so that her back was mostly to the main tunnel but she could see everything. The curly red hair that usually bounced around her freckled face was pulled back, tighter than usual, and her round glasses caught the dim light. She looked like a frightened librarian standing in the middle of a riot. Her left hand was a blur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the nervous habit she picked up when she was cataloging something she couldn’t quite categorize. "Harlow," Eva breathed, her voice dropping an octave. She didn't step out from behind the booth, instead reaching into her satchel with trembling fingers. "Hold on, Evie. Stay put," Harlow ordered, her voice low but carrying the sharp edge of authority she’d cultivated over eighteen years. She swept past the booth, her eyes scanning the immediate vicinity. "Have you called it in?" "Of course I called it in, but they haven't arrived. The police inspector is arguing with the gatekeeper about the quota on archaic artifacts." Eva emerged slowly, clutching a small leather-bound journal. She looked at Harlow, her green eyes wide and darting around the crowded tunnel. "It’s worse than I thought." Harlow stopped. She spotted the body ten yards away, resting against a stack of damp crates. It was a human male, dressed in a gray suit that had seen better decades. His head lolled back against the wood, exposing the length of his throat. "Victim?" "Julian," Eva whispered, stepping closer. "I was buying ingredients for a translation project from his stand." Julian. A fence for the Clique, from what she knew. Disposable, but usually unremarkable. Now, he was conspicuously dead. Harlow walked to the body, her movements precise, a military cadence stripped of ceremony. She crouched, ignoring the intrusion of the damp earth. She reached for her cuffs, but paused. Something was off. The blood. There should have been blood. Julian’s chest was covered in a dark, crusted pattern, a mess that looked like arterial spray, but the pool beneath him was bone dry. The atmosphere in the tunnel was thick with humidity, almost oppressive, yet the area around the body felt parched. The air tasted metallic, coppery, but not like fresh copper; it tasted like old pennies left in a coat pocket too long. "He’s been dead for hours," Eva said softly, reading Harlow's silence. "At least. I was down here around noon with the vendor on the other side of the aisle." Harlow ignored her. She examined the wound on Julian’s neck. It was a clean, vertical slice, severing the windpipe and jugular. It was an efficient kill, surgical in its brutality. But the tool used to do it hadn’t been a knife. There were no edges, no grooves from serration. The flesh of the wound was seared, the edges smoking slightly as the copper taste in the air intensified. "It’s not a weapon," Harlow muttered. She stood up and brushed the knees of her trousers. "The edges are cauterized." "Cauterized?" Eva blinked, adjusting her glasses. "That’s medically impossible without... without fire." "No. Not fire. Without iron," Harlow countered, her mind racing back to the files on Morley’s disappearance. Iron burned supernatural creatures. It burned skin and bone alike. "Someone walked up to him and sliced his throat with a piece of heavy iron. But there’s no trace of it." "Maybe they dissolved it?" Eva suggested, her finger tracing the line of the wound on the cardboard surface next to Julian’s head. "Some of the alchemists can do that. They create a paste that dissolves metals on contact." "Unlikely," Harlow said. She looked around the crowd. The market had gone still. The chatter dropped to a murmur as heads turned, curiosity pricking the patrons. They knew Julian was one of them, and they were fearful. Fear was a valuable currency in the Veil. "Stand back, Eva," Harlow said, pushing past her friend. She approached the crowd, her uniform creating a buffer zone. "Back up. Move it." The crowd parted like water around a stone, wary of the badge. Harlow stepped into the circle of the crime scene, her eyes scanning for anything that didn't belong. Money. Jewelry. The weapon. The empty handedness of the killer gnawed at her. Then she saw it. High above, clinging to the dark, exposed girders of the station ceiling, directly over Julian’s head, was a shadow. Not the absence of light, but a sentient darkness. It stretched out, elongating tendrils that seemed to mimic the shape of a hand holding a blade. It was feeding. It had consumed the weapon, taking the iron and the threat into itself and leaving Julian as a husk. Harlow looked at her left wrist. The leather of her watch strap creaked as her hand tightened around it. She reached into her pocket and drew out the small brass compass she kept, a gift from a shady contact in the city's east end. The Veil Compass. It was supposed to find magic, to point toward rifts or lost artifacts. She flicked the case open. The needle, etched with protective sigils, immediately began to tremble. It spun violently, erratic and frantic, its movement dictated by the rising energy of the dark presence above. "Harlow?" Eva’s voice wavered. Harlow didn't look at Eva. She locked eyes with the shadow on the ceiling. She could feel the cold press against the back of her neck. "He didn't bring the iron," Harlow said, her voice hardening. "The iron came from somewhere else." "From the ceiling?" Eva stepped closer, the leather of her satchel creaking. "But shadows can't hold matter. They can't—" "Wait for it," Harlow commanded. The shadow on the ceiling twisted, elongating. It descended, not attacking, but mimicking. It stretched downward, sharpening at the end, replicating the sickle shape of a medieval executioner’s blade, made entirely of living darkness. "The Clique," Harlow said, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "They’re not fencing goods anymore. They’re harvesting. They’re weaponizing the Hollow." "I told you," Eva whispered, "I found those texts. The Old Lore speaks of the Dark Scythe. It isn't a tool. It’s a condition." "It's a death warrant." Harlow holstered her weapon, her mind already calculating routes, exits, and contingencies. The shaking of the compass was fading, settling into a steady, downward point, directly targeting the thing floating above. The crowd was shifting now. They were scared. If the market was being targeted, they would scatter. If they scattered, they would impede the police and disperse evidence. "Eva, stay with the body," Harlow said, turning back to her friend. "I need to know where the nearest maintenance tunnel is. I need an exit that doesn't go through the ticket booth." Eva stared at her, her freckles standing out against her pale face. She reached into the satchel again, pulling out a crumpled map. "Sector 4," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "There's a ventilation shaft in the wall over there. It hasn't been used since the renovations." "Good. Give it to me." As Harlow took the map, she saw Eva’s hand shaking. It wasn't fear of the shadow above; it was the terrifying realization that Harlow might be walking into something that couldn't be put in a cell. "Go, Evie," Harlow said, gripping the younger woman’s shoulder. "Lock down the perimeter. Don't let anyone in or out. Not even me until I come back." Eva nodded, her mouth tight. "Be careful, Harlow." "I always am." Harlow turned back to the darkness. She could feel the hum of the thing on the ceiling, waiting for her to look up. She adjusted her collar, checking the tactical vest over her jacket. The needle on the compass was still vibrating, a metronome counting down to something terrible. "You're bleeding," Eva pointed out, nodding toward Harlow's forehead. Harlow touched the skin above her right eyebrow. It was warm. She pulled her finger away. It was dry. "It's nothing," Harlow said, though she knew it wasn't. "It's just blood." She raised her head, meeting the gaze of the ceiling. The Veil Market would fall silent for a while, but the night was young, and the hollow was hungry. Harlow took a breath, smelling the copper and the decay, and began to walk toward the ventilation shaft, her hand resting on the strap of her holster, her body moving with the singular, terrifying focus of a predator circling its prey.