Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR5THNFWHBPBF3H9T6AP44

The air beneath Camden tasted of rust, wet concrete, and something older, something that clung to the back of the throat like copper blood. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow police tape with a precision that bordered on aggression, her boots clicking sharply against the cracked tiles of the abandoned Tube station. The fluorescents overhead flickered with a dying buzz, casting long, stuttering shadows across the platform where the body lay. "Keep the perimeter tight, Evans," Quinn barked, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the uniformed officers. "I don't want civilians drifting down here. If the press gets wind of a body in a sealed station, we'll have a circus by morning." She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, a reflexive check of time that grounded her. 03:14. Three years ago, at roughly this hour, she had lost DS Morris. The memory was a dull ache behind her eyes, a ghost she carried in the sharp line of her jaw and the salt-and-pepper crop of her hair. She pushed the thought aside. Grief didn't solve cases; evidence did. Quinn approached the body. It was a young woman, slumped against a graffiti-covered pillar, eyes wide and unseeing. No blood. No visible trauma. Just a stillness that felt unnatural, as if the life had been sucked out rather than taken. "Rough night, Guv?" Sergeant Evans fell into step beside her, clutching a notebook that looked too clean for the grime of the underworld. "Looks like an overdose. Maybe a bad batch from the street dealers up top. We found a needle nearby." Quinn crouched, her knees cracking softly. She inspected the ground within a three-foot radius of the victim. "Where?" Evans pointed to a shattered syringe lying near the victim's left hand. "Right there. Classic junkie setup. We bag it, we send it to tox, we wrap this up before breakfast." Quinn didn't move. Her brown eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with military intensity. "The needle is plastic, Evans. Disposable. Look at the track marks on her arm." She gestured to the victim's pale forearm. "Old scarring, healed over. Nothing fresh. No puncture wound corresponding to that needle." "Maybe she missed," Evans offered, shifting his weight. "Happens all the time." "And maybe someone planted it," Quinn countered, standing up. She towered over the sergeant, her five-foot-nine frame radiating a tension that made him take a half-step back. "Look at her shoes. Leather soles, no mud. She didn't walk through the tunnels to get here. The entrance to this sector was welded shut in '98. How did she get in?" "Door was forced," Evans said, though his confidence wavered. "Crowbar marks on the maintenance hatch." Quinn walked to the hatch. She ran a gloved finger along the metal. "Scratches on the outside. Someone opened it from the inside, Evans. Or rather, something opened it." She turned back to the body, her gaze sweeping the platform again. That was when she saw the distortion. The air around the victim shimmered, not like heat haze, but like oil on water. The graffiti on the pillar behind the girl seemed to writhe slightly at the edge of vision. And the smell—it wasn't just rust anymore. It was ozone and burnt sage. "This isn't a drug deal gone wrong," Quinn muttered, more to herself than to Evans. "Come on, Harlow," Evans sighed, using her first name in that patronizing tone he reserved for when he thought she was chasing ghosts. "You've been working too hard since... well, you know. You're seeing things that aren't there. It's a dead girl in a squat. Let's let the coroner do his job." Quinn ignored him. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in a handkerchief. It was the Veil Compass, a tool she had confiscated from a suspect two weeks prior and never logged into evidence. The brass casing was dull with a patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with protective sigils that hurt the eyes if one stared too long. "What is that?" Evans asked, squinting. "Some kind of antique?" "Shut up, Evans," Quinn snapped. She held the compass flat in her palm. The needle didn't point north. It spun wildly for a second before locking onto the space directly above the victim's head, trembling with violent intensity. The tip glowed with a faint, violet luminescence. Quinn's breath hitched. The compass wasn't just a trinket; it was attuned to supernatural energy, crafted by a Shade artisan from the Veil Market. If the needle was reacting this strongly, it meant a rift was present. A portal. "The Veil Market," she whispered. "The what?" Evans stepped closer, peering at the compass. "Is that a toy? Harlow, put that away before you contaminate the scene." "It is the scene, you idiot," Quinn hissed, her patience fracturing. She pointed the compass toward the far end of the platform, where the shadows seemed thicker, deeper than the lighting should allow. "She didn't die here. She was pushed through. Or pulled." Quinn moved toward the shadowed archway, the compass needle pulling her hand like a magnet. As she got closer, the details of the environment shifted. The tiles on the wall weren't just dirty; they were etched with faint, glowing runes that only became visible when viewed through the periphery of her vision. The air grew colder, biting through her coat. "Look at the dust," Quinn commanded, stopping abruptly. Evans frowned. "What about it?" "There's no dust on her clothes," Quinn said, turning to face him. "But the floor here is covered in it. Except for these footprints." She indicated a series of faint impressions in the grime leading away from the body, toward the dark tunnel mouth. "They aren't human. Too light. Too wide in the stride. And look." She knelt again, brushing away a layer of soot to reveal a small, circular token embedded in the crack between two tiles. It was bone. Carved with intricate symbols that matched the sigils on her compass. "A bone token," Quinn said, her voice dropping to a grim murmur. "Entry requirement for the Veil Market. This isn't a crime scene, Evans. It's a drop-off point." "You're talking nonsense," Evans said, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction. He was staring at the compass, which was now vibrating so hard Quinn's hand shook. "There's no such thing as a 'Veil Market.' That's fairy tales. Urban legends." "Tell that to Morris," Quinn said, the name slipping out before she could stop it. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Evans looked down at his shoes, the color draining from his face. He knew the story. Everyone in the precinct knew Detective Quinn had lost her partner to an 'unexplained incident' three years ago, a case file that had vanished into the internal affairs black hole. Quinn stood up, tucking the compass back into her pocket. The needle's pull was undeniable now. The rift wasn't just a theory; it was a wound in the world, right here in the belly of Camden. The victim hadn't overdosed. She had been sacrificed, or perhaps she was collateral damage in a transaction gone wrong. "Bag the token," Quinn ordered, her voice regaining its steel. "And seal this entire sector. I mean total lockdown. No one in, no one out. Not even the Chief." "Harlow, you can't lock down a Tube station on a hunch about magic bones," Evans protested weakly. "It's not a hunch," she said, walking back to the body. She looked down at the young woman's face, seeing the terror frozen in those glassy eyes. "It's a pattern. And I'm not missing it this time." She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't used in two years. It rang twice before a familiar, nervous voice answered. "Eva? It's Harlow. I need you to meet me at the Camden lock-up. Bring your satchel. And don't ask questions yet." As she hung up, Quinn glanced at the dark tunnel again. The shadows seemed to recoil from her gaze, but she knew what lurked there. The Veil Market moved every full moon, and tonight the sky above London was nearly full. Someone had opened a door that should have stayed shut, and Harlow Quinn was the only one who knew how to slam it closed again. "Evans," she said, not looking at him. "Get a team down here with heavy-duty floodlights and silver nitrate flares. If my theory is right, we're going to need more than badges to handle what comes next." "What do you think is down there, Guv?" Evans asked, his voice trembling slightly. Quinn tightened her jaw, her hand resting instinctively on the holster of her service weapon. "Trouble," she said. "The kind that doesn't show up on autopsy reports."