Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRCK7RFXZDA58TZ60059Y7

The stench hit Quinn before she ducked under the yellow tape. Copper and rot, sharp enough to sting the back of her throat. Eighteen years on the force, and certain smells still made her stomach clench. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden shouldn't have existed. Not according to any official map she'd pulled. Yet here she was, descending concrete steps worn smooth by decades of footfall, her torch beam cutting through darkness that seemed to resist the light. DS Patel waited at the bottom, his face pale in the artificial glow of the portable work lamps the forensics team had rigged. "Ma'am. Didn't think you'd come down yourself." "Body in an unlisted station?" Quinn adjusted her grip on the torch, her worn leather watch catching the light as she moved. "That merits attention." The platform stretched before them, wider than she'd expected. Victorian tile work decorated the walls—elaborate patterns in blues and greens that had faded to the color of bruises. But that wasn't what made her pause. Makeshift stalls lined both sides of the platform, their wooden frames still standing though their contents had been cleared in a hurry. Empty crates. Overturned tables. A silk scarf trampled into the dirt, its deep purple fabric embroidered with symbols that made her eyes water if she looked too long. "What was this place?" she asked. "Some kind of market, looks like. Underground, obviously. We're cataloguing everything, but..." Patel's voice trailed off. "But what?" "Most of it doesn't make sense. We've got jars labeled with substances that aren't in any database. Books in languages that Interpretation can't identify. And the goods—ma'am, some of them shouldn't be possible." Quinn's jaw tightened. She'd heard variations of this speech before. Three years ago, in a warehouse in Rotherhithe, standing over Morris's body while junior officers used those same words. Shouldn't be possible. Doesn't make sense. "Show me the victim." The body lay near the far end of the platform, where the tunnel mouth gaped like an open throat. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in expensive clothes that had once been pristine. Now the white shirt bore a constellation of dark stains across the chest. Quinn crouched beside him, playing her torch across the wounds. "Stabbed?" she asked. "That's what it looks like. Multiple puncture wounds, but..." Patel crouched beside her. "Forensics says the weapon had to be at least eight inches long, narrow gauge. But the angle's wrong for any attack they can reconstruct. It's like he was stabbed from above, but the ceiling's twenty feet up." Quinn studied the victim's face. His expression held no surprise, no pain. His eyes stared at the vaulted ceiling with something closer to resignation. She'd seen enough death to know fear when she saw it frozen on a corpse's features. This man had known what was coming. She stood, scanning the platform with military precision. The work lamps created harsh shadows, but she'd learned long ago to read what hid in darkness. There—near one of the overturned stalls. Scuff marks in the dust, as though something heavy had been dragged. But the pattern was wrong. Instead of straight lines, the marks curved and twisted like something alive had written them. "What's the coroner's initial time of death?" "Between midnight and three AM. Best they can do until they get him on the table." "Cameras?" Patel shook his head. "Nothing down here. And the nearest CCTV on street level shows nothing unusual. Few people coming and going through what looks like a maintenance door at the old station entrance, but all of them hours before our window." Quinn walked to the nearest stall, her footsteps echoing off tile and concrete. An empty wooden crate sat askew on the counter. She shone her light inside. The wood bore scratches—deep gouges that formed patterns. Not random. Deliberate. She pulled out her phone and took several photos, adjusting angles to capture the marks clearly. "Ma'am." Patel's voice held a note of caution. "You don't think this is connected to the Rotherhithe case?" She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she moved to another stall, then another, documenting each one. Empty bottles with residue that gleamed oddly in her torchlight. A brass scale with weights that looked like carved bone. And there, half-hidden beneath an overturned table—a small brass compass, its face etched with patterns similar to those on the silk scarf. She started to reach for it, then stopped. "Has forensics processed this area?" "Not yet. They're still working the body." Quinn pulled an evidence bag from her jacket pocket and carefully collected the compass without touching it directly. The brass had developed a patina of verdigris, but underneath she could see the intricate etchings more clearly. Not decorative. Purposeful. The needle inside didn't point north—it spun lazily in circles, as though searching for something it couldn't find. "Detective Quinn?" The voice came from the platform stairs. Quinn turned to see a woman descending, moving with the careful precision of someone navigating unfamiliar territory. Curly red hair pulled back in a messy bun, round glasses catching the work lamps' glare. She wore civilian clothes and carried a worn leather satchel that looked heavy enough to throw out her spine. Patel stepped forward. "Miss, this is a crime scene. You can't be here." "I know. I'm sorry. But I need to speak with whoever's in charge." The woman's green eyes found Quinn's. "It's about what this place really is." Quinn studied her. Mid-twenties, freckled complexion, nervous hands that kept moving to tuck hair behind her left ear even though the bun held it secure. Not a reporter—they had a particular brand of predatory confidence this woman lacked. Not a gawker. Something else. "How did you get past the perimeter?" "I told them I had information about the victim. Which is true. Sort of." The woman shifted her satchel. "My name is Eva Kowalski. I'm a research assistant at the British Museum. Ancient History division." "This isn't a museum, Miss Kowalski." "No. It's a Veil Market." Eva's voice dropped, and she glanced at Patel before continuing. "Or it was until someone died here. Now it'll have moved. They always move when there's violence." Quinn's fingers tightened on the evidence bag holding the compass. "Explain that." "Can we talk somewhere more private? Please. You won't believe me anyway, but at least I won't sound completely insane in front of your entire team." Patel opened his mouth to object, but Quinn raised a hand. Something in the woman's expression reminded her of Morris, three years ago, trying to tell her things she'd refused to hear. She'd learned, too late, the cost of not listening. "Patel, supervise forensics. Make sure they document everything, no matter how strange. I want every stall photographed, every item catalogued." "Ma'am—" "That's an order." She turned to Eva. "You. With me. We're going to have a conversation about impossible things." As they climbed the stairs toward the surface, Quinn glanced once more at the crime scene below. The victim's eyes still stared at the ceiling. The scuff marks still twisted in impossible patterns. And the compass in her pocket felt warm against her leg, its needle spinning faster now, searching for something that had already disappeared into the dark.