Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT02262HQKM1G008CBY3K9E

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like rust. Her torch cut through the dark, illuminating peeling posters and the skeletal remains of a long-dead ticket booth. The air hummed, not with the usual London underground vibration, but with a low, discordant note that set her teeth on edge. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows near the platform edge. Quinn didn’t flinch. She adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped forward, boots crunching on broken glass. The beam of her torch found DS Carter leaning against a rusted support pillar, arms crossed, his face half-lit by the sickly glow of his phone. “Traffic,” Quinn said. “What’ve we got?” Carter pushed off the pillar and gestured toward the tracks. “Body. Male, early thirties. Found by a couple of kids looking for a shortcut home.” Quinn followed his gaze. The body lay sprawled across the rails, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The man’s coat—expensive, dark wool—had ridden up, exposing a pale strip of stomach. His face was turned away, but the way his fingers curled into the gravel suggested he’d been reaching for something. Or trying to crawl. She crouched beside him, the cold seeping through her trousers. No blood. No obvious wounds. Just a man who looked like he’d decided to take a nap on the tracks and never woken up. “Cause of death?” she asked. Carter shrugged. “No idea. No signs of trauma. ME’s on her way, but she’s stuck in traffic too.” Quinn ignored the jab. She pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket and snapped them on. The man’s skin was cool, but not yet stiff. Rigor hadn’t set in. He hadn’t been here long. She rolled him onto his back. His eyes were open. Not just open—*wide*. Pupils dilated, irises swallowed by black. His mouth hung slack, lips parted as if he’d been mid-sentence when whatever had happened, *happened*. Quinn leaned in. No smell of alcohol. No track marks on his arms. No defensive wounds. She sat back on her heels. “You check his pockets?” “Yeah. Wallet’s still there. Cash, cards, the works. No phone, though.” Quinn frowned. “No phone?” “None.” She reached into the man’s coat, fingers brushing against something hard and smooth. She pulled it out—a small brass compass, its face etched with strange, angular symbols. The needle didn’t point north. It spun lazily, then jerked to a stop, aiming straight at the far wall of the station. Quinn’s thumb traced the patina on the casing. “This isn’t standard issue.” Carter peered over her shoulder. “Looks like junk. Probably picked it up at some market stall.” Quinn didn’t answer. She turned the compass over in her palm. The back was engraved with a single word: *Veil*. “You see this?” she asked, holding it up. Carter barely glanced at it. “Yeah. So?” Quinn stood, her joints protesting. She shone her torch along the tracks, then up at the ceiling. The station was old, but not *that* old. The tiles were cracked, the paint peeling, but the structure was sound. No signs of a collapse. No loose wires. No explanation for why a man in a tailored coat would end up dead on the rails with no visible cause. She walked to the edge of the platform and jumped down, landing in the gravel. The compass needle twitched, then steadied, pointing toward a narrow service tunnel half-hidden behind a rusted maintenance door. “Quinn,” Carter called. “Where the hell are you going?” She didn’t answer. The door groaned as she pushed it open, the hinges protesting. The tunnel beyond was dark, the air thicker, heavier. Her torch flickered. “Quinn, this isn’t part of the scene.” She ignored him. The compass pulled her forward, the needle now spinning wildly, as if sensing something just out of reach. The walls of the tunnel were covered in graffiti—no, not graffiti. Symbols. The same angular marks as on the compass. They pulsed faintly in the torchlight, like they were breathing. Quinn’s pulse kicked up. She’d seen symbols like these before. Three years ago. In the files from Morris’s last case. She stopped. The tunnel opened into a wider chamber, the ceiling lost in darkness. The air smelled different here—sharp, metallic, like ozone after a storm. And beneath that, something else. Something *old*. Carter’s footsteps echoed behind her. “Quinn, we’re not supposed to be down here. This isn’t—” “Shut up.” She crouched, running her fingers over the ground. The gravel gave way to smooth stone, carved with more of those symbols. And in the centre of the chamber, a circle. A perfect, unbroken ring of blackened rock, no wider than her outstretched arms. The compass needle pointed straight at it. Quinn stood, her breath shallow. “This isn’t a crime scene.” Carter exhaled sharply. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course it is. There’s a dead body back there.” “No.” She turned to face him, the torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. “This is a *portal*.” Silence. Carter stared at her. Then he laughed, a short, humourless bark. “A what?” “A portal.” She held up the compass. “This thing points to supernatural rifts. And that”—she jerked her chin toward the circle—“is one.” Carter’s smile faded. “You’re serious.” “Deadly.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Quinn, come on. You’re telling me some guy just *walked* into a magic circle and dropped dead?” “No.” She crouched again, examining the edge of the ring. The stone was warm. Almost *hot*. “I’m telling you he didn’t just drop dead. Something *pulled* him here. And whatever it was, it didn’t let him leave.” Carter didn’t answer. The chamber felt smaller suddenly, the air tighter. Quinn stood, her gaze sweeping the symbols on the walls. They weren’t just marks. They were a *language*. A warning. She turned the compass over in her hand. *Veil*. “You ever hear of the Veil Market?” she asked. Carter frowned. “No. Should I?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was already walking back toward the tunnel, the compass clutched tight in her fist. The dead man on the tracks wasn’t the first. And if she didn’t move fast, he wouldn’t be the last.