Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ249K0ETWW0F8Y8WZ6593

The tunnel stank of mold and something else—something acrid that caught in the back of the throat. Detective Harlow Quinn clicked on her torch, sweeping the beam across crumbling Victorian brickwork. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, the steady plink-plink echoing through the abandoned Tube station. "This is the third one this month," said DS Fletcher, his voice bouncing off the curved ceiling. "Same MO as the others. No forced entry, no witnesses, victim drained of blood." Quinn moved forward, careful to avoid disturbing the chalk outline on the ground. The body had been removed hours ago, but the dark stain on the concrete remained, spreading outward like spilled ink. She crouched, running her gloved finger along the edge of the stain. "Not the same," she murmured. "Come again?" "Not the same as the others." Quinn stood, her knees cracking. Age catching up with her, one ache at a time. She swept her torch beam across the abandoned platform. "The others were dumps. This is a kill site." Fletcher frowned, flipping through his notebook. "The blood pattern suggests—" "I know what the report says." Quinn cut him off, circling the outline. "But look at the spray. Look at the splatter height." She pointed her torch at the wall where brownish drops had dried against the tiles. "This is where he died." "So we're dealing with a copycat?" Quinn didn't answer. Her attention had shifted to something glinting at the edge of her torch beam—something that had escaped the forensic team's notice. She approached carefully, bending to examine what appeared to be a small brass object wedged between two loose bricks. "What have you got there?" Fletcher asked, coming up behind her. Quinn extracted the item with tweezers, holding it up to the light. A small brass compass, its face etched with strange symbols she didn't recognize. Verdigris crusted its edges, but when she turned it over in her palm, the needle spun wildly before settling, pointing not north but toward the darkened tunnel that led deeper beneath the city. "Bag this," she said, passing it to Fletcher. "And get it to the lab." "Looks old. Victim's, you think?" Quinn's eyes narrowed. "No. Our victim was a twenty-two-year-old barista with an iPhone and AirPods. This doesn't fit." She shined her torch down the tunnel where the compass needle pointed. Something nagged at her—a memory, a fragment of a case file from years ago. The unsolved disappearance of DS Morris. He'd been following a lead, something about an underground market. She'd found his notes after, filled with references to tokens and moving locations. "The tunnel's been searched?" she asked. "Cursory sweep. Nothing of interest." Quinn stepped toward the tunnel entrance. "I want to check it myself." Fletcher sighed. "Quinn, it's late. We've got uniforms securing the scene. Whatever's down there can wait until morning." "That's what Morris said." The words slipped out before she could stop them. "Your old partner? What's he got to do with this?" Quinn didn't answer, already moving into the tunnel, her torch beam cutting through the darkness. The air grew colder the farther she went, dense with moisture and that same acrid scent, stronger now. After fifty meters, the tunnel widened into what must have once been a maintenance area. Quinn swept her torch around, revealing empty alcoves and rusting equipment. And something else. Scratched into the wall: a symbol matching one of the etchings on the compass. "Fletcher!" she called, but her voice sounded muffled, as if the tunnel itself was swallowing her words. She approached the symbol, running her fingers over the grooves in the brick. The compass in her pocket seemed to grow warm. Pulling it out, she watched as the needle quivered, then spun rapidly before pointing directly at the wall. "Detective Quinn?" Quinn startled, swinging her torch toward the voice. A woman stood at the edge of her beam—petite with curly red hair and round glasses perched on a freckled nose. A worn leather satchel hung from her shoulder. "This area is restricted," Quinn said, shifting to block the symbol on the wall. "Police investigation." "I know." The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. "That's why I'm here. I'm Eva Kowalski. I work with the British Museum." "The British Museum doesn't have jurisdiction over crime scenes." "It does when the crimes involve artifacts from our restricted archives." Eva nodded toward Quinn's pocket. "Like the Veil Compass you're carrying." Quinn's hand moved instinctively to her pocket. "How did you—" "Because three others just like it went missing from our collection last month." Eva stepped closer, the beam of Quinn's torch illuminating her green eyes. "And because your partner was investigating their disappearance when he vanished." Quinn's breath caught. "You knew Morris?" "Not directly. But I've been researching his case files. Detective, what do you know about the Veil Market?" The name sent a chill down Quinn's spine. Morris had mentioned it in his notes—fragments, really. Nothing concrete. "Underground black market," she said. "Moves locations. Morris was tracking it." "It's more than that." Eva glanced nervously down the tunnel. "And we shouldn't be discussing this here. They'll know we've found the entrance." "They?" "The market vendors. Look—" Eva pulled a book from her satchel, flipping to a marked page. "These killings match a pattern. They happen every full moon, near the market's new location. The victims are all marked with this." She pointed to a symbol identical to one etched on the compass. "Marked how? There were no marks on the victims." "Not visible to the naked eye, no. But under UV light..." Eva produced a small blacklight from her bag, shining it on the wall where Quinn had found the symbol. The scratches glowed an eerie blue, but so did dozens of other markings invisible before—handprints, swirls, strange angular script. Quinn stepped back. "What the hell is this?" "The entrance ritual. Blood offerings to gain entry." Eva swept the light across the floor, revealing more glowing stains. "Your victim wasn't murdered; he was sacrificed. To open the door." Quinn thought of the blood pattern, the strange splatter height. Not consistent with a typical murder, but perfectly aligned with a ritual bleeding. She looked at Eva sharply. "How do you know all this?" Eva hesitated, then reached into her satchel and produced what looked like a yellowed bone token. "Because I've been inside. I'm an occult researcher, Detective. I study the places between worlds." "You expect me to believe there's some kind of... supernatural black market down here?" "I expect you to follow the evidence, Detective Quinn. Just like your partner did." The mention of Morris hardened Quinn's resolve. She turned the compass over in her hand, watching as the needle steadied, pointing unwavering at the symbol-covered wall. "If what you're saying is true, these killings will continue. The next full moon is in three days." Eva nodded grimly. "And the market will move again after that. This may be our only chance to get inside, to find what happened to your partner, and stop whoever is committing these sacrifices." Quinn studied the young woman, noting the certainty in her green eyes, the determined set of her jaw. Three years she'd been searching for answers about Morris. Three years of dead ends and closed doors. "Show me how to get in." Eva's expression softened with relief. She stepped toward the wall, placing the bone token against the central symbol. "The compass will guide us once we're inside, but Detective—" she turned to Quinn with a serious look, "—nothing in there is what it seems. Trust your instincts, not your eyes." Quinn nodded, her hand automatically moving to check her sidearm. As Eva pressed the token harder against the wall, the etchings began to glow, brighter and brighter until Quinn had to shield her eyes. When she looked again, the solid wall had vanished. Beyond lay another tunnel, but this one glimmered with strange lights and echoed with voices speaking languages Quinn had never heard. The Veil Market awaited.