Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR767VSZPJZQWANYTH9MQ9

The humidity of the derelict Tube station clung to Harlow Quinn’s skin like a damp shroud. It was an unnatural heat for October in London, one that smelled less of subway grime and more of scorched ozone and old copper. She stepped over a rusted rail, the heels of her boots ringing hollow against the subterranean silence. Harlow checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. Three in the morning. She had spent the last twenty minutes navigating the labyrinthine service tunnels beneath Camden, guided by a frantic tip from a regular informant. Now, standing on the platform of what the locals called the Veil Market, she felt the familiar weight of dread settle behind her ribs. The station was supposed to be abandoned, a ghost of the Victorian underground, but the evidence of life—and something far stranger than life—was everywhere. Stalls made of salvaged timber and scrap metal lined the edges of the platform, draped in tattered silks that still shimmered with a faint, oily luminescence. The air vibrated with a low-frequency hum that made the fillings in Harlow’s teeth ache. "Detective. You’re late to the party." Harlow didn't need to turn to identify the voice. DS Miller was standing near a central fountain that shouldn’t have existed, carved from a single slab of obsidian that bled black water into a circular basin. Miller was a good officer, but he was a man who saw the world in straight lines and primary colors. He lacked the scar tissue that lived on Harlow’s psyche—the kind that came from losing a partner to a shadow and being told by the brass it was a gas leak. "Tell me what we've got, Miller," Harlow said, her voice a low rasp. She kept her eyes moving, scanning the perimeter. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair caught the flicker of a distant torch. "Double homicide," Miller said, gesturing toward the base of a merchant’s stall. "Looks like a deal gone wrong. We’ve got two males, mid-thirties, both dressed like they lost a fight with a Renaissance fair. No ID, but the contents of their pockets are… unusual." Harlow approached the bodies. They lay sprawled on the grimy tiles, their limbs tangled in a way that suggested a sudden, violent cessation of movement. She knelt, her sharp jaw tightening as she looked at the first victim. He was wearing heavy robes of reinforced leather, and tucked into his belt was a pouch that had spilled open. "They're calling it a robbery-homicide," Miller continued, scribbling in his notebook. "The place is a black market, obviously. Probably a dispute over the price of the contraband." Harlow reached out, not touching the body, but hovering her hand an inch above the victim’s chest. "There’s no blood, Miller." "Internal hemorrhaging, maybe? Or a clean puncture we haven't found yet." "Look at the tiles," Harlow said, pointing to the ground. There were shards of glass everywhere—deep green glass that looked like it had been blown from sand and emeralds. "And look at their hands." The victims’ fingers were charred black at the tips, as if they’d reached into a furnace. But their clothing remained untouched by fire. "Must have been some kind of chemical agent," Miller muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. He stepped closer, peering over her shoulder. "Wait, what's that in his hand?" Harlow used a pen to pry open the dead man's fingers. Nestled in his palm was a small brass compass. The casing was thick with a patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with sigils that made Harlow’s eyes swim if she stared at them too long. The needle wasn't pointing North. It was spinning in a slow, erratic circle, clicking like a panicked heartbeat. "A Veil Compass," Harlow whispered. "A what?" "A shadow compass. It doesn’t find magnetic north. It finds rifts." Harlow stood up, her brow furrowing. "This wasn't a robbery. If someone wanted the goods, they would have taken this. This thing is worth more than a decade’s salary on the street." She scanned the market again, her brown eyes narrowing. About ten yards away, near a stack of discarded crates, a figure was crouching. The person was small, dwarfed by a heavy, worn leather satchel. A shock of curly red hair escaped from under a knitted cap, and the glint of round glasses caught the dim light. "Hey!" Harlow shouted, her hand instinctively dropping to the holster at her hip. "Police! Don't move!" The figure jumped, nearly knocking over a pile of ancient-looking scrolls. It was a girl—hardly more than a student. She looked up, her freckled complexion pale with terror. "I wasn't doing anything!" the girl cried, her voice trembling. She immediately tucked a stray strand of hair behind her left ear—a nervous tic that spoke of chronic anxiety. "I’m just… I’m a researcher! I have credentials!" Harlow moved toward her with military precision, her boots clicking rhythmically. "You’re in a restricted crime scene, kid. That’s a hell of a place for a research trip." "I'm Eva. Eva Kowalski," the girl said, clutching her satchel to her chest as if it were a shield. "I work at the British Museum. The archives." "The restricted archives," Harlow corrected, noticing the museum ID clipped to the girl's belt. "The ones that deal with things that don't officially exist. What are you doing here, Eva?" Eva looked at the bodies, then back at Harlow. Her green eyes were wide behind her lenses. "I heard there was an opening. A rift in the ley line under Camden. I came to stabilize it, but I was too late." "Stabilize it?" Miller scoffed, joining them. "It's a murder scene, girl. Not a science project." "You're wrong," Eva said, her voice gaining a sudden, sharp edge of authority. "Look at the floor. Look at the shadows." Harlow looked. At first, she saw nothing but the flickering play of the torches. But then she realized the shadows cast by the stalls were pointing toward the center of the platform—directly toward the obsidian fountain. The light source was behind them, yet the shadows were defying the physics of light. "They didn't die from a weapon," Eva whispered. "They were caught in the backwash. Someone used a bone token to force entry into the Market, but they didn't have the right resonance. They tore the Veil. The compass in that man's hand? It was trying to track a hole in reality. They weren't killed by a person. They were killed by the atmosphere." Harlow felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air. It was the same feeling she’d had three years ago, standing over DS Morris’s body in that warehouse in Whitechapel. The same impossible shadows, the same smell of ozone. "Who else was here, Eva?" Harlow asked, her voice softening. She could see the girl was on the verge of a breakdown. "Who were they meeting?" Eva hesitated, her fingers white-knuckled on the strap of her bag. "I don't know names. But there’s a group. A clique. They’ve been buying up everything related to the London rifts. Alchemical substances, enchanted artifacts... they’re looking for something specific." "What?" "A way through," Eva said. "They don't want to just visit the Market. They want to tear the door off the hinges." Harlow looked back at the bodies, then at the spinning needle of the Veil Compass. The evidence was right there, hidden in plain sight, invisible to men like Miller because they refused to believe the world was wider and darker than their manuals suggested. She turned back to Eva, a new resolve hardening her features. "You’re coming with me, Kowalski. If you’re as good a researcher as you say, you’re going to help me find out who’s responsible for this. Because the people I’m looking for? They don't care who gets caught in the backwash." "Detective, you can't be serious," Miller protested. "She’s a civilian. And this... this talk of rifts is nonsense. It’s a gang hit." Harlow didn't look at him. She was focused on the girl with the red hair and the leather satchel. "The world is changing, Miller. Either you start seeing it, or you get out of the way." She reached down and picked up the Veil Compass, the verdigris cold against her palm. The needle gave a violent jerk, pointing directly at the tunnel she had just walked through. "They're still here," Harlow said, her voice a low promise of retribution. "And they're just getting started."