Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ3299SYR52C280ZAA4J5W

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped off the last rung of the ladder, her boots hitting the platform with a sharp echo. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling posters and graffiti that crawled up the tiled walls like ivy. She adjusted the worn leather strap of her watch, the second hand ticking too loud in the silence. "Quinn. Over here." Detective Sergeant Cole stood near the mouth of an old service tunnel, his silhouette framed by the flicker of police floodlights. He waved her over, the motion jerky. "Took you long enough." She ignored the jab. "What’ve we got?" Cole jerked his chin toward the tunnel. "Body’s in there. Male, late twenties. No ID, no wallet. Just this." He held up an evidence bag, the contents glinting under the artificial light—a small brass compass, its face etched with strange symbols. The needle spun lazily, as if drunk. Quinn’s fingers twitched. She knew that compass. Had seen one just like it in a case file three years ago, the one that had cost her a partner. She stepped closer, the beam of her torch catching the patina of verdigris on the brass. "Where’d you find it?" "Clutched in his hand. Like he was using it right before—" Cole made a vague gesture toward the tunnel. "You’ll see." The body lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The floodlights bleached his skin to wax, the blood pooling beneath him dark as oil. Quinn crouched, her knees protesting. No signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds. Just a single, clean puncture in the side of his neck, the edges too precise to be a knife. "Looks like a drug deal gone wrong," Cole said, arms crossed. "Maybe he was meeting someone here. Got greedy, got stabbed." Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the compass. The needle had stopped spinning. Now it pointed straight at the wall. She stood, brushing dust from her trousers. "You said there’s no ID?" Cole shook his head. "Nothing. But we found this in his pocket." He handed her another evidence bag. Inside was a small, yellowed bone token, carved with the same symbols as the compass. Quinn’s stomach tightened. "This isn’t a drug deal." Cole exhaled through his nose. "You’re reaching. It’s a stabbing. Happens every damn night in this city." She turned the token over in the bag. "Then why’s he holding a compass that doesn’t point north? Why’s he got a key to the Veil Market in his pocket?" Cole’s jaw worked. "The what now?" Quinn ignored him, stepping closer to the wall. The needle of the compass trembled, as if pulled by an invisible thread. She ran her fingers along the tiles, pressing until her fingertips ached. Nothing. Just cold, smooth ceramic. Then—there. A seam. Almost invisible, but when she traced it with her nail, it gave way, the edges rough under her skin. She dug her fingers in and pulled. The wall didn’t move. Cole let out a sharp laugh. "Christ, Quinn. You’re losing it." She didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned the compass over, studying the sigils. One of them—a crescent moon bisected by a jagged line—looked familiar. She’d seen it before, in Eva Kowalski’s notes. A protective ward. Meant to keep something *in*. Or something *out*. She pressed her palm against the wall, right where the needle pointed. The tiles were warm. Almost pulsing. "Get me a crowbar," she said. Cole didn’t move. "You’re serious?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the compass. The needle had started spinning again, faster this time, a blur of motion. Then it stopped. Pointed straight at her. The wall groaned. A crack split the tiles, jagged as lightning. Dust rained down, stinging her eyes. Cole stumbled back, swearing. Quinn didn’t move. She just watched as the crack widened, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond. A draft whispered out, carrying the scent of old paper and something sharper—copper, maybe, or ozone. The compass in her hand grew hot. Cole grabbed her arm. "Quinn, what the hell is that?" She shook him off. "It’s a door." "Not a normal one," he muttered. She didn’t correct him. She already knew that. The crack widened further, the tiles crumbling like stale bread. Beyond it, the darkness shifted, coalescing into shapes—shelves, maybe, or stalls. A market. One that shouldn’t exist. Quinn stepped forward, the compass burning against her palm. The last time she’d seen something like this, Morris had died. But she wasn’t Morris. And she wasn’t about to let another body go unexplained. She took a breath. Then she stepped through.