Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ91538RYP13ETH5XVNKAYB

The air beneath Camden tasted of rust and wet concrete, a metallic tang that coated the back of Detective Harlow Quinn's throat. She stood on the cracked tiles of the abandoned Tube station, the beam of her torch cutting through the gloom to reveal peeling posters from a decade past. This was the Veil Market, or at least the shell of it, a hidden supernatural black market that slipped through the city's cracks like smoke. Tonight, it was empty, save for the body lying near the tracks. Quinn checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. 02:14. She had eighteen years of service behind her, enough to know when a scene was staged, but this felt different. The shadows here seemed to cling too tightly to the walls. She adjusted the collar of her coat, her movements sharp, possessing a military precision that had survived the transition from army to Metropolitan Police. Beside her, Eva Kowalski shifted her weight. The younger woman was small, barely five foot four, dwarfed by the cavernous station. Her curly red hair was a vibrant shock against the grey decay, and she kept tucking a stray lock behind her left ear, a nervous tic that had accelerated since they descended the stairs. Eva wore round glasses that reflected the torchlight, hiding her green eyes, and clutched a worn leather satchel full of books against her chest like a shield. It is a binding circle, Eva said, her voice echoing slightly in the tunnel. She pointed a trembling finger at the chalk marks surrounding the corpse. Look at the sigils. They are consistent with Shade artisan work. This was a ritual execution. Quinn crouched beside the body, ignoring the chalk. She was forty-one, old enough to trust evidence over superstition, though the ghost of DS Morris whispered in the back of her mind. Morris had died three years ago under circumstances that defied logic, a case file that remained open only because Quinn refused to let it close. She would not make the mistake of chasing ghosts again. Rituals do not bleed like this, Quinn said. She pulled a latex glove over her hand and tilted the victim's chin. The wound was a precise incision across the throat, but the blood pooling beneath the head was too dark, too thick. And there is no spatter on the wall behind him. If his throat was cut here, the arterial spray should be on the tiles. Eva stepped closer, the smell of old paper and ozone drifting from her satchel. The Veil Market moves every full moon. Maybe the geometry of the space changed after the kill. The energy displacement could alter physical trajectories. Quinn stood up, her brown eyes hard. Energy does not stop blood, Eva. Physics still applies, even in a black market. She walked the perimeter of the chalk circle. The lines were perfect, too perfect for a hurried ritual. They were drawn with a steady hand, likely a ruler or a stencil. This was not a passionate ceremony. It was a cleanup. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Veil Compass. It was a small brass instrument, the casing covered in a patina of verdigris. The face was etched with protective sigils that glowed faintly in the dark. Quinn had confiscated it from a suspect in Soho two weeks prior. The needle spun wildly before settling, pointing not at the body, but at the tunnel entrance behind them. Your compass is broken, Eva said, pushing her glasses up her nose. It is supposed to point toward supernatural rifts. If this was a ritual sacrifice, the residual energy should be highest here. Quinn watched the needle. It trembled, then swung back to the tunnel entrance. The compass was attuned to supernatural energy, crafted by a Shade artisan who understood the flow of the city's hidden currents. If the needle pointed away from the body, the power had not been spent here. It had been drawn from here. He was not killed here, Quinn said, snapping the compass shut. He was drained. The blood was taken before he was placed on the tracks. The chalk is a distraction. Someone wanted us to think this was about the Market, about magic. Eva frowned, her freckled complexion pale in the torchlight. But why stage it? If they were harvesting energy, why leave the body at all? To send a message, Quinn said. She looked down the dark tunnel where the compass needle pointed. Morris had chased whispers of a group trafficking in enchanted goods and banned alchemical substances. He had vanished near a site just like this. Quinn felt the familiar tightness in her chest, the sharp jawline setting hard. They are not just selling goods, Eva. They are farming power. And they are using the Market as a cover. Eva tucked her hair behind her ear again, looking from the body to the detective. If you are right, then the person who did this knows how the Market works. They know the schedule. They know how to bypass the bone token entry requirement. Quinn holstered her torch and began walking toward the tunnel entrance, her boots clicking on the tiles. Then we find out who has access. The compass leads to the source. If they are drawing power from a rift, they need a conduit. Wait, Eva called out, hurrying to catch up, her satchel bouncing against her hip. If this is a conduit, it could be unstable. Going toward it without protection is suicide. Quinn did not slow down. She had walked into fire before. She had lost a partner to the unknown, and she would be damned if she let fear dictate her investigation again. The evidence did not add up to magic. It added up to murder, calculated and cold. The supernatural elements were just the weapon, not the motive. Stay behind me, Quinn said, her voice low. And keep your books closed. We do not need any more distractions. The tunnel ahead was darker than the station, the air growing colder with every step. The compass needle locked forward, unwavering. Quinn tightened her grip on her flashlight, her mind racing through the possibilities. If the clique was involved, as she suspected, then this was bigger than a single murder. It was a network, entrenched and dangerous. But networks had nodes, and nodes could be cut. She glanced back at Eva, who was following close enough to be useful but far enough to be safe. The researcher was looking at the walls, muttering about ley lines and structural integrity. Quinn did not care about the lines. She cared about the blood on the tiles and the lie of the chalk. They turned a corner, and the tunnel opened into a larger chamber. In the center stood a machine of brass and glass, humming with a low vibration that Quinn could feel in her teeth. Cables ran from the device into the rock wall, pulsing with a faint violet light. Quinn raised her weapon. The compass in her other hand grew hot. I told you, Eva whispered, her voice filled with awe and terror. It is a rift tap. Quinn stepped forward, her shadow stretching long across the floor. It was not a ritual. It was industry. And she was going to shut it down.