Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZC8FSV14FH57045XPC0TA

The flickering fluorescents buzzed overhead like a swarm of irritated wasps, casting long, jagged shadows across the damp concrete. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape with the quiet precision of a soldier retreating from a minefield. The stench of rust and something older—something *wrong*—clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Her boots crunched over broken glass as she moved toward the body. A man lay sprawled on his back, his suit jacket open, the fabric stiff with something darker than blood. The crime scene tape fluttered around her, snagged on the rusted railings of the abandoned Tube station. The Veil Market’s usual hum of whispered deals and haggling was absent. Too quiet. Too still. DS Carter adjusted his tie, his breath fogging in the cold air. "You’re late, Quinn. Thought you’d bail on us again." Harlow didn’t look at him. Her fingers brushed the cold brass of the Veil Compass in her pocket, the sigils etched into its casing pressing against her skin. "Traffic. Or maybe I was busy." Carter exhaled through his nose, a sound that grated like nails on a chalkboard. "This is a mess. No signs of forced entry, no struggle marks. Just… found him like this." He gestured toward the body with a gloved hand. "Looks like he took a header off the platform." Harlow crouched, her knee cracking against the uneven concrete. The man’s face was slack, his lips blue-tinged. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling tiles like he’d seen something no human should. The suit beneath him was expensive—tailored, not off-the-rack—but the cuffs were torn, as if he’d fought something. Or *someone*. She traced the edges of the puddle pooling beneath him. Not just blood. Something darker, thicker. Like ink spilled on water. "Check his pockets," she murmured. Carter knelt beside her, his breath hitching when he saw the contents of the man’s inner jacket pocket. A bone token, small and white, its surface smooth as polished ivory. He held it up between two fingers, turning it in the dim light. "Veil Market," Harlow said, her voice low. "He wasn’t just here for the air." Carter swallowed. "You think it’s connected?" She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted the man’s wrist, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Then she turned his hand over, examining the back of his palm. A faint, raised sigil—three curved lines forming a triangle. Not a brand. Not a tattoo. Something *carved* into his skin, fresh enough to still bleed a little where it met the bone. Carter’s breath hitched. "That’s not normal." "Nothing about this is," Harlow said, her gaze flicking to the platform above them. The edge was jagged, the metal bars rusted into sharp points. No signs of a struggle. No blood splatter. Just… absence. She stood, brushing the dust from her knees. "Someone didn’t want us finding this." Carter followed her gaze. "You think it’s the clique?" Harlow didn’t confirm or deny. She pulled the Veil Compass from her pocket, letting the needle spin lazily before it locked onto something unseen. The brass casing warmed against her palm. "Tell me about the last time you saw him," she said. Carter hesitated. "He was at the museum yesterday. Said he had a lead on some old occult text. Eva Kowalski—you know her?" Harlow’s fingers tightened around the compass. "I know of her." Carter’s voice dropped. "She’s been asking questions too. About the Veil Market. About *them*." Harlow’s jaw tightened. "And?" "And nothing. But she’s been skittish lately. Like she’s hiding something." The needle on the compass trembled, then snapped toward the shadows beneath the platform. Harlow’s pulse quickened. "Get me the forensics team. And call in backup." Carter nodded, already pulling out his radio. "You think it’s connected to your partner’s case?" She didn’t look at him. "I think this isn’t just a suicide." The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their glow casting long, shifting shadows across the concrete. Somewhere in the darkness beneath the platform, something moved.