AI The flickering fluorescent lights of the abandoned Camden Tube station cast everything in a sickly green pallor. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped carefully over the debris-strewn platform, her leather-soled shoes silent on the cracked tiles. The air hung thick with the smell of damp concrete and something else—something metallic and coppery that made her nose wrinkle.
"Quinn," called DS Patel from the far end of the platform, his voice echoing off the curved walls . "You're going to want to see this."
She moved toward him, noting the way he stood slightly apart from the others, his posture rigid with professional restraint. Patel had been with the Met for fifteen years, seen his share of bodies, but something about this scene had rattled him.
The victim lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs akimbo in a way that spoke of violence rather than accident. At first glance, it appeared to be a standard junkie overdose—the track marks on the arms, the dilated pupils, the pallor of death already settling in. But Quinn's eyes narrowed as she took in the details that didn't fit.
The man's clothes were too clean for someone living rough. His shoes—Italian leather, barely scuffed—spoke of money and care. And those marks on his arms weren't just needle tracks. They formed patterns, deliberate and arcane.
"Corner shop owner found him at 0600," Patel said, keeping his voice low. "Called it in immediately. No ID on the body, but I ran the face through facial recognition. Our John Doe is Marcus Reeves, 34, investment banker from Kensington. Lives alone, no criminal record, married with two kids."
Quinn crouched beside the body, ignoring the warning prickle at the back of her neck. Three years ago, she'd learned to trust that sensation . It had saved her life more than once since Morris died.
"Patel ," she said, not looking up , "call the museum. Ask for Dr. Eva Kowalski. Tell her we have a body with occult markings and I need her expertise. Now."
Her colleague's eyebrows shot up. "The museum? You think this is—"
"I think this is exactly what it looks like," Quinn interrupted, her fingers hovering over the intricate patterns on Reeves' inner arm. "And I think we're about to have company we didn't invite."
She stood, brushing dust from her trousers, and surveyed the scene with fresh eyes. The station's decay told its own story—graffiti layered upon graffiti, the remnants of old advertisements peeling from the curved walls, the tracks themselves rusted and unused for decades. But there, near the edge of the platform, something caught her attention.
A small brass object, no larger than a fifty-pence piece, lay half-hidden beneath a discarded newspaper. Quinn picked it up carefully , turning it over in her gloved hands. A compass, but not like any she'd seen before. Its face was etched with symbols that made her head ache to look at them directly, and the needle spun lazily , never quite settling on north.
"Found something?" Patel asked, joining her.
Quinn held up the compass. "Ever seen one of these before?"
He leaned in, squinting at the strange device. "Can't say that I have. Looks old."
"It's not just old," Quinn said, her voice tight . "It's active. Whatever killed Reeves, this was involved."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading down to the platform made them both turn. A woman emerged from the shadows, curly red hair escaping from a messy bun, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. She carried a worn leather satchel slung across her body, and her green eyes took in the scene with professional interest.
"Dr. Kowalski," Quinn said, stepping forward to meet her. "Thank you for coming so quickly ."
Eva Kowalski nodded, her gaze already moving past Quinn to the body on the tracks. "Detective Quinn. DS Patel ." She offered a brief nod to each before approaching the victim. "I got your message. Occult markings, you said?"
"And more," Quinn replied, following her. "Dr. Kowalski, meet Marcus Reeves. Investment banker, apparently. But I don't think money was what brought him here."
Kowalski crouched beside the body, her movements precise and careful. She opened her satchel and withdrew a small notebook and pen, already making observations. "These aren't just markings," she murmured, tracing one of the patterns on Reeves' arm without touching the skin. "This is a ritual circle, compressed and tattooed. Someone turned his body into a conduit."
"For what?" Patel asked, his skepticism evident.
"For power," Kowalski said, standing and turning to face them. "The kind that leaves traces. Detective, where did you find this?" She gestured to the compass in Quinn's hand.
"Near the body," Quinn replied. "It was under some rubbish. I think it fell from his pocket."
Kowalski's eyes widened slightly . "That's not good."
"Why?" Quinn pressed. "What is it?"
"It's a Veil Compass," Kowalski said, her voice dropping . "They're attuned to supernatural energy, specifically to rifts and portals. If this was in his possession, then Reeves wasn't just involved in something occult—he was actively seeking it out."
The prickling sensation at the back of Quinn's neck intensified. "The Veil Market," she said, the pieces beginning to click into place. "It moves locations, doesn't it? Follows the full moon?"
Kowalski nodded. "It does. And the next full moon is tonight."
Patel swore under his breath. "You're saying there's a black market for this kind of thing? Right under our noses?"
"Worse," Quinn said, her mind racing . "I'm saying Reeves was a customer. And whatever he bought, it killed him."
She turned to her colleague, her expression grim. "Patel , I want this station locked down. No one comes in or out without my authorization. Kowalski—"
"I'm coming with you," the researcher said, already moving toward the stairs. "If there's a connection to the Veil Market, I need to see it for myself. There are patterns, Detective, cycles to these things. I can help you understand what we're dealing with."
Quinn hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Fine. But stay close and do exactly as I say. This isn't like your museum archives, Dr. Kowalski."
"Believe me," Kowalski replied, her green eyes fierce behind her glasses, "I understand the difference between academic research and field work. But sometimes, Detective, the lines blur in ways that matter."
As they ascended the stairs back to street level, Quinn's phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced at the screen, her jaw tightening.
"What is it?" Kowalski asked, noting the change in her demeanor.
"Forensics just sent over Reeves' phone records," Quinn said, pocketing the device without replying. "In the weeks before his death, he made repeated calls to a number that belongs to a closed psychiatric facility in Hampstead. A facility where my former partner, DS Morris, was committed three years ago."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. Kowalski's expression softened with understanding, but she said nothing, simply falling into step beside Quinn as they emerged onto the Camden street.
The detective paused, looking back at the entrance to the abandoned station. Somewhere in the city, hidden from ordinary eyes, the Veil Market was preparing to open. And she had a feeling that Marcus Reeves was just the beginning.
"We need to move quickly ," Quinn said, checking her watch —a worn leather piece that had belonged to Morris. "The market won't stay in one place for long, and if Reeves was killed for what he knew or what he bought, then whoever did it might already be there, waiting."
Kowalski adjusted her satchel, a determined set to her jaw. "Then we'd better not keep them waiting, Detective. After all, some knowledge is worth killing for. The question is—are we prepared for what we might find?"
Quinn didn't answer immediately. Instead, she started walking, her mind already cataloging the resources she'd need, the protocols she'd have to break, the shadows she'd have to step into. Morris had died chasing answers to questions like these. She'd be damned if she'd let his death remain meaningless.
"Just remember, Dr. Kowalski," she said finally, her voice hard as the London streets beneath their feet, "in this world, knowledge isn't just power. It's currency, it's weapon, and sometimes, it's poison. And I need to know—are you prepared to pay the price?"
The red-haired researcher met her gaze steadily, unflinching. "Detective Quinn, some of us have been paying that price our whole lives. Now, let's go see what the Veil Market has to offer. I have a feeling we're going to need everything we can get."