Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR54BHVP5J2XBPDX98JVB8

Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots echoed on the graffiti-scarred platform as she stepped off the police wagon. The stale hush of the abandoned Tube station settled around her like a shroud. Flickering sodium lamps inched their light down chipped pillars, painting every surface in bruised yellow. Her leather watch tapped midnight; she inhaled industrial dust and something darker—an unsettling musk that made her pulse sharpen. She knelt at the edge of the taped-off zone. Yellow Crime Scene Do Not Cross ribbon looped from a rusted support beam to the lip of the tracks. Inside, the body lay splayed on the cold concrete—an artisanal corpse in powdered silks, draped with what looked like blackened rose petals. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. Nothing about this tableau was natural, yet her training demanded facts. Detective Inspector Shearer stood to one side, arms crossed over his navy overcoat. “Victim’s a local drifter,” he said. “Name’s Jonas Merrick. Homeless, petty thief. Found by a kids’ gang scavenging for change.” Quinn’s voice stayed low, flat. “Any witnesses?” He shook his head. “Nail beds clean, no identification. Blood spatter’s odd—almost no spatter. Like the liquid pooled from a faucet rather than sprayed.” Quinn rose, scanning the floor. The pool of dark red lay thick around Merrick’s torso. No outward wounds, no weapon. Just petals. She crouched beside the body and pressed a latex-gloved finger to one rose flake. It crumbled at her touch—brittle ash. She drew her finger back and sniffed. Metallic, yes, but mixed with something camphorous, faintly sweet. “Organics,” she murmured. Shearer frowned. “Petals from some rare flower? I’ll have forensics run it.” Before Quinn could reply, Eva Kowalski stepped into the lamplit ring. Curly red hair caught in the light; round glasses perched on her nose. She tucked a strand behind her ear, satchel jangling with books and parchments. Quinn’s chest tightened. Eva wasn’t police, but she’d been at Quinn’s side when no one else would believe the impossible. “Detective,” Eva called softly. “I got here as soon as you texted.” “Not what I usually text you about,” Quinn said, straightening. She flicked a glance at Shearer, who gave a curt nod of approval. Eva’s status as a museum-affiliated consultant had already paid dividends once before. Eva crouched by the victim’s feet. She flipped open a leather-bound notebook and scribbled. “Did you see the sigils etched into the flower petals?” She pointed to half-buried lines that curved like runes at the platform’s edge. Quinn leaned in. The ash lines—when refracted by the overhead lamp—glowed faintly umber. She’d thought them staining by candle soot. Now they looked deliberate. “The organics I mentioned,” Quinn said. “And these markings. He wasn’t killed with a blade or gun. Something dripped down his chest, here.” She swept her gloved hand. “Corrosive. Blood remained intact.” Shearer cleared his throat. “You’re saying it’s… occult?” Quinn crossed her arms. “I’m saying it doesn’t fit standard homicide. No entry wound, no exit wound, no weapon. Just lack of pattern.” She pointed to the pool. “Notice how it edges crisply into the cracks, unmixed with platform detritus. Whoever—or whatever—killed him collected every drop, either as part of a ritual or to conceal the precise time of death.” Shearer raised an eyebrow. “Conceal time of death?” “Time of death by livor mortis, postmortem hypostasis—blood settles, changes color. But here,” Quinn pressed her finger to the dried blood, then rubbed. The stain resisted. “It’s been treated with a sealant, maybe alchemical. Forensics will confirm a resin or lacquer. It’s deliberate.” Eva closed her notebook. “Those sigils are binding runes—meant to trap spiritual energy. Possibly to keep whatever killed him from slipping away.” She tapped one ash rune with a pencil tip, then recoiled. “They burn at human body temperature.” Quinn tracked her gaze to the raised ash, now smoking faintly. “So this place—I’ve heard rumors. The Veil Market.” Eva’s lips curved. “You’re standing on it.” Quinn’s breath caught. Underground black market of enchantments. She’d chased whispers and dead ends for months, never found proof. A cynic in her bones, she forced alignment. “You sure this is it? Every muscle in me wants to call it hocus-pocus.” Eva rose, dusting ash from her palms. “I’d wager my Oxford thesis that you’re standing on the Market floor. If your man was killed in a ritual, this is where they trade in things best left forgotten.” Shearer shook his head. “You really think… midnight deals in an abandoned Tube station?” The detective squared her shoulders. “Stranger things in uniformed service.” She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the brass Veil Compass. The casing had a certain verdigris sheen, the needle spinning before settling toward the far end of the platform. “Compass points to the nearest rift or portal. Thought it might help us home in on unnatural energies.” She noticed Shearer’s flicker of doubt. He didn’t know of her acquisition. She expanded her palm, angling the compass so the sigils on its face caught the light. The needle pulsed, quivering like it sought purchase. It aligned in the direction of a blocked-off passageway beyond derelict tracks. Eva leaned close, voice low. “They sealed off the old Northern City line years ago. No one’s been down those tunnels in decades.” Quinn studied the rusted steel grille, the wooden planks wedged beneath its bars. A faint thrum—a heartbeat beneath the metal. She frowned, mind running protocols. No power line here, no pumping station. Nothing mechanical. “Strange resonance.” Shearer cleared his throat. “Detective, you want us to open that?” Quinn stared at the barricade, then back to Shearer. “I want us to examine what’s behind it. Carefully.” He hesitated. “We’d need a warrant—” “I’m on call,” Quinn said. “You have mine.” She lifted a hand. “Stand back.” She slotted her baton under a plank and in one swift motion kicked free the grille. The metal tumbled into a heap. Cold air whooshed up the platform, carrying the stench of mildew and something else—petrichor mixed with dust. The compass needle jerked, then steadied, pointing deeper into the tunnel. Quinn stepped over the edge of the platform. Her boots landed on gravel, steely grit scraping underfoot. Eva followed, flashlight beam cutting a swath through gloom. Shearer brought up the rear, sidearm drawn but expression curious. Quinn’s pulse heightened: the tunnel walls dropped away into darkness, soot-black arches repeating. Tracks ended in scree. The compass glowed faintly in her palm. “Energy spiked thirty yards in,” she said. “Could be the rift. Stay alert.” Eva scanned the walls. “These arches—look at the carvings.” She swept her torch over spiraling reliefs: serpentine figures clutching swords, eyes carved as if to follow. “Not Victorian graffiti. Older. Pagan.” Quinn frowned. She crouched to inspect the floor. Scattered shards of pottery, fragments of bone. Some shards bore the same runic lines as the platform sigils. “They transported the ritual down here,” she observed. “Cleaned up on the top level.” Shearer fingered his radio. “We call in forensic tunnel units—” Quinn stood. “No one disturbs anything until I say.” Her tone brooked no argument; he stayed silent. She advanced on tiptoe, examining each wood plank nailed to the wall where seconds ago a vending car had once run. Something gleamed under Eva’s light. A small brass compass casing lay half-buried in gravel—another Veil Compass. The patina matched Quinn’s own. She snatched it, flipped it over: the face bore an engraving in a Shade artisan’s hand, tiny protective sigils. Side by side, her compass and this one’s needles pointed toward a sealed doorway at the tunnel’s end. Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Two compasses tuned to the same rift. That means a broker, or buyer, and a seller. They convened here.” Eva exhaled. “A deal gone wrong. Or someone double-crossed.” Her gaze traced the runes leading from the dais. “You saw the petals. They’re an offering—blood in exchange for safe passage or purchase.” Quinn’s mind flicked back to the body. No weapon, no spatter—just this arcane transaction. Her throat constricted. “The killer—or ritualist—took every drop of blood to complete the bargain. But why Merrick?” She closed her eyes. “He was a drifter. Used as sacrifice. A human token.” Shearer swallowed. “M’lord—sir.” Quinn cut him a look. “Dismiss him.” Shearer hesitated, then extended his hand to catch Eva’s shoulder. “Right. Forego the official channels—” Quinn shook her head. “He’s not police. He’s a victim, too.” She held up the extra compass. “We trail this rift. We find who’s dealing in human blood.” Behind the sealed door, the compass needle trembled, as though impatient. Quinn’s lungs burned from the stale air; her fingers tingled. She squared her shoulders. “Prepare to breach. And have forensics on standby. This station’s no longer a crime scene—it’s prime evidence. And it’s more than just murder.” Eva closed her notebook and stowed it. “Welcome to the Veil Market, Detective. You just got your first official invitation.” Quinn gave a half-smile, fierce and measured. She slotted her flashlight into her jacket, pointed her baton at the doorway. The tunnel breathed around her. She listened for footsteps on the other side—and something quieter: a heartbeat, faint but steady, echoing in the dark. For the first time in years, she felt she was closing in on the unnatural. And whatever lurked behind that door, she would see it face to face.