Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT03ERXH3T3S5DB18CASP9C

Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots scuffed the damp concrete of the abandoned Tube station, the echo bouncing off peeling posters and the faint, metallic tang of decay. Her gaze swept the scene: a single overturned chair, a discarded notebook half-buried in grime, and a pool of congealed blood that seemed unnaturally still. The air hummed with a low, unnatural vibration she couldn’t place. Her partner, DS Morris, stood rigid beside a flickering overhead light, his face pale beneath the harsh glare. “Looks like a standard domestic gone wrong,” Morris muttered, his voice tight. “Woman found dead in her flat. Husband’s the prime suspect. Found him passed out in the kitchen, smelling of gin and guilt.” He gestured vaguely at the notebook. “She was writing something... frantic. Pages torn out.” Quinn’s eyes narrowed. The blood wasn’t pooling correctly. It clung to the floor like dried tar, not spreading. And the chair—it was positioned as if someone had deliberately pushed it over, not knocked it down in a struggle. “Where’s the body?” she asked, her voice low. “In the bedroom. DS Evans is bagging it now.” Morris shifted uncomfortably. “The husband’s got a solid alibi. He was at the pub, saw the whole thing on the news. Claims she was writing about some ‘shadowy figure’ before he came home.” Quinn’s hand drifted to her left wrist, where her worn leather watch ticked steadily. She’d seen too many cases where the obvious answer was a trap. “Show me the bedroom,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. The bedroom was smaller, the air thicker with the same oppressive hum. The body lay on the bed, face down, the sheet pulled up to the chin. Quinn knelt, her fingers brushing the cold fabric. The victim’s hair was matted, one strand caught on the headboard. She noticed the faint, almost invisible sigil etched into the wood—a symbol she’d seen in the restricted archives Eva Kowalski accessed. “This isn’t domestic,” she murmured. “This is ritual.” Morris frowned, stepping closer. “Ritual? The husband’s a plumber. He’s got no interest in occult nonsense.” “Then why the sigil?” Quinn countered, her eyes scanning the room. “Why the torn pages? And why is the blood... static?” She pointed at the congealed pool. “It’s not blood. It’s something else. Something that dried instantly.” “What else could it be?” Morris demanded, his voice rising. “You’re seeing things, Quinn. You’ve been off since Morris.” Quinn straightened, her sharp jawline set. “I’m seeing the truth. And the truth is hiding in plain sight.” She pulled her satchel from her shoulder, rummaging through it. “Where’s Eva?” “She’s on her way. Said she’d meet us here. Found something in the archives about a local occult group called the Veil.” Morris’s eyes darted to the sigil again. “The Veil? That’s just a myth, right?” “Myth or not,” Quinn replied, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, “someone’s using it. And they’re leaving signs.” She extracted a small, brass compass from her bag, its face etched with protective sigils. “This,” she said, holding it up, “points to supernatural energy. To rifts. To portals.” She activated the compass. The needle didn’t spin; it trembled violently, then settled, pointing towards a loose floorboard near the bed. Quinn pried it up, revealing a small, velvet-lined box. Inside lay a bone token, polished smooth. “The Veil Market’s entry requirement,” she explained, her voice tight. “Bone token. This victim was trying to enter. Or someone was trying to stop her.” Morris stared at the token, then at the sigil, then at Quinn. “So... the husband didn’t do it?” “No,” Quinn said, her eyes never leaving the compass. “The husband is a pawn. The real killer is someone who knows the Veil. Someone who uses it. And they’re not done yet.” She tucked the compass away, her mind racing. “Get Evans. We need to secure this scene. And call for backup. This is bigger than we thought.” She turned, her military bearing snapping into focus, ready to face whatever lurked in the shadows of the Veil Market.