AI Rain lashed against the grimy windows of the abandoned Tube station, blurring the world outside into streaks of grey and black. The air inside hung heavy with the damp scent of decay, a metallic tang of old iron, and something else—something acrid, like burnt sugar and ozone. Detective Harlow Quinn, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair still damp from the dash from her unmarked car, stepped over the threshold. Her worn leather watch on her left wrist showed a quarter past midnight. The cavernous space, a forgotten relic beneath Camden’s bustling streets, echoed with the distant drone of the Tube lines still in use.
Her gaze swept the scene with military precision. Fluorescent lights, hastily set up by forensics, hummed, casting harsh shadows that distorted the already grim tableau. The crime scene tape, a bright yellow against the dull concrete, wound through a labyrinth of makeshift stalls and overturned crates. This forgotten station, she knew, was the latest rumored location of the Veil Market, a place the Met had chased for years, always one step behind.
Detective Miller, a younger officer with an overeager glint in his eyes, walked toward her, a steaming cup of tea clutched in his hand.
“Quinn, thought you’d never make it,” Miller said, steam curling around his face. “Pretty grim, huh?”
Harlow’s sharp jaw remained unmoving. She didn’t offer a response. Her attention fixed on the centre of the derelict platform. A figure lay sprawled across a display of what looked like antique scientific instruments—brass astrolabes, tarnished silver compasses, and delicate glass phials filled with iridescent liquids. The victim, a man in a tattered trench coat, stared blankly at the vaulted ceiling. His skin held an ash-like pallor, and a faint, sweet smell, like burnt marshmallows, clung to him.
“Any ID?” Harlow asked, her voice a low rumble.
Miller shook his head, sloshing some tea onto his hand. “Not yet. No wallet, no phone. Looks like they cleaned him out.” He motioned towards a forensics tech carefully bagging a small, elaborately carved wooden box. “Forensics are going through his pockets now. Looks like a robbery gone wrong.”
Harlow approached the body, her brown eyes missing nothing. The victim’s hands were splayed , fingers curled inwards as if he had been clutching something. His coat was rumpled, but not torn. No obvious signs of a struggle. She squatted, observing the strange collection of items around him. A small brass compass, etched with unfamiliar symbols, lay half-hidden beneath his arm. Its patina of verdigris caught the pale light.
“Robbery?” Harlow straightened, her gaze fixed on something Miller hadn’t noticed. “No broken glass. No overturned furniture. Just a few scattered trinkets.”
Miller shrugged, took a sip of tea. “Could be an inside job. Someone knew he was carrying something valuable, probably caught him off guard. Stabbed ‘em, took the goods, left him for dead.” He pointed to a dark, viscous stain spreading beneath the victim’s chest. “One clean hit, straight to the heart.”
Harlow remained silent. She knelt again, her brow furrowed . The stain, a deep, almost black red, wasn’t quite right. It bled into the concrete in an unnatural way, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. No, not a clean hit, not like she had seen a thousand times. There was no splatter, no arterial spray. Just a spreading pool, impossibly dark.
“What about the weapon?” she asked, her voice even .
Miller gestured vaguely. “We’re still looking. Probably a blade. Quick and quiet.”
Harlow studied the victim’s chest. The fabric of his coat was charred , the edges brittle and black. Beneath it, a gaping hole pulsed with that same unnatural darkness. Not a stab wound. Not a blade. She reached out, her gloved fingers hovering above the wound. The air around it felt strangely cold, an icy current in the otherwise stagnant atmosphere.
“You’re telling me someone calmly stabbed him through the heart, leaving this… hole, and then just walked away, *after * sorting through his pockets for valuables?” Harlow’s voice held a razor’s edge. “No struggle, no blood trail, nothing disturbed except for this man’s life?”
Miller shifted his weight , suddenly looking less confident. “Well, people panic. Make mistakes. Maybe the killer was experienced. Fast.”
Harlow’s gaze shifted to the display of unusual items. The brass compass, she noticed, was not pointing north. Its needle, instead, quivered, orienting itself towards the far end of the platform, where a section of the tunnel disappeared into impenetrable darkness.
“You said he was cleaned out,” Harlow said, her voice dropping . She picked up a small, silver-filigreed flask next to the body. It felt cold to the touch, too cold, as if it had been plunged in ice water. “But this is still here. And this.” Her fingers brushed against a small, intricately carved bone token lying near the victim’s head, almost hidden in the grime. “And these… whatever they are.” She gestured to the surrounding display. “If this was a robbery, why leave anything?”
Miller walked over, peering at the compass. “That’s just junk, Quinn. Probably some old novelty item from this… market. They were probably looking for cash, not dusty old trinkets.”
“And the fact that the actual wound is charred, not punctured, doesn’t strike you as odd?” Harlow straightened, her eyes narrowed . She removed a penlight from her pocket and shone it on the edges of the wound. Tiny, almost invisible particles sparkled in the beam, like crushed obsidian.
Miller leaned closer, grimacing. “Looks like a burn, yeah. Maybe from the struggle? Or maybe the killer used some kind of… stun gun, something high voltage. Then finished him off with a knife.”
“A stun gun that leaves no entry or exit wound, only a perfectly circular, charred hole leading directly to the heart?” Harlow scoffed. “And the victim just stood there for it?” She ran her gloved finger along the scorched fabric. The edges were too neat, too precise for a struggle.
She looked around again, letting her eyes sweep the entire platform. The stalls, though makeshift, showed signs of complex craftsmanship. Small amulets carved from bone, vials containing luminous liquids, and strange, archaic texts lay scattered. Not the usual fare for a petty thief. This was a different kind of market. A different kind of crime.
Her gaze finally rested on a lone forensic technician, carefully collecting samples from the perimeter of the crime scene, away from the body itself. The man was bagging a cluster of unusual footprints, almost like animal tracks, pressed into a thin layer of dust near an overturned wooden crate.
“Miller, what are those?” Harlow pointed with her chin.
Miller squinted. “Animal tracks? Probably a stray rat. This place is infested.”
“Rats don’t wear boots, Miller.” Harlow walked towards the forensics tech. The prints were distinct, not quite human, but too large for a rat . They bore a strange, almost claw-like pattern at the front, merging into a human-like heel. They were fresh, undisturbed.
“Sir,” the tech said, standing up as Harlow approached. “These prints are unusual. Don’t match anything we have on record. And they seem to come from… nowhere, and disappear into nowhere else. Just a few steps, then gone.”
Harlow examined the prints closely. They certainly weren’t human. They suggested something large, heavy, yet agile. And the vanishing act interested her. She linked it with the unnatural cold spot, the unique wound, the strange compass, and the esoteric trinkets. This wasn’t a common murder. This was something else. Something she had glimpsed before, a fleeting shadow at the edge of her understanding.
She turned back to Miller, her expression unreadable . “A robbery gone wrong, you said.”
Miller nodded, his confidence slowly returning. “Makes the most sense, Quinn.”
Harlow’s lips formed a tight line. “No. It doesn’t.” Her gaze moved from the inexplicable prints, to the enigmatic wound, to the compass still pointing into the darkness of the tunnel. “Someone didn’t just rob him, Miller. Someone… or something… *took * something from him. Something far more valuable than cash.”
She walked toward the compass, its needle still quivering purposefully. She bent down, retrieving it, noting its unusual weight . The sigils etched on its surface felt warm, almost alive , beneath her gloved fingers. She held it flat in her palm, and the needle, after a brief, frantic spin, settled, unwavering , pointing deeper into the abandoned tunnel.
“Whatever happened here,” Harlow said, her voice barely a whisper , “it wasn’t human.”