Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT06NEN65X4TCHHSYNKWZN0

The flickering emergency lights painted the abandoned Tube station in sickly yellow stripes. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots echoed against the cracked tiles as she descended the stairs, the air thick with mildew and something sharper—burnt ozone. The uniformed officer at the bottom shifted his weight, fingers tapping against his thigh. "Detective." He nodded toward the cordoned-off platform. "Body’s down there. Weird one." She didn’t answer, just adjusted the strap of her kit bag and moved past him. The platform stretched into shadow, the old tracks filled with stagnant water. A figure crouched near the far wall, red curls catching the dim light. Eva Kowalski’s satchel lay open beside her, spilling papers and a brass compass onto the tiles. Quinn’s jaw tightened. "This is a crime scene, Ms. Kowalski." Eva didn’t look up. Her fingers hovered over the body—a man in his fifties, sprawled on his back, mouth slack. His suit was expensive, tailored, but his left sleeve had been rolled up to reveal a tattoo Quinn recognized: three interlocking circles. The mark of a Veil trader. "You shouldn’t be here," Quinn said. Eva finally glanced up, her round glasses reflecting the emergency lights. "Neither should he." She gestured to the compass beside her—its needle spun lazily, pointing nowhere and everywhere. "This place isn’t on any Tube map. And that?" She nodded toward the man’s outstretched hand. A bone token rested in his palm, cracked clean down the middle. Quinn crouched opposite her, pulling gloves from her pocket. "Cause of death?" "Officially? Cardiac arrest." Eva tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "Unofficially? His heart stopped because something reached through the Veil and squeezed." Quinn’s fingers stilled over the man’s wrist. No ligature marks. No bruising. Just cold skin and the faint scent of sulfur. She peeled back his collar—no puncture wounds, no signs of struggle. His watch had stopped at 3:17 AM. "Time of death?" "About four hours ago," Eva said. Quinn checked her own watch—the worn leather strap creaked. 7:23 AM. She frowned. "Sunrise was at 5:48. If this was supernatural, why leave the body? Most things that cross over don’t stick around for daylight." Eva’s fingers traced the edge of the broken token. "Maybe it wasn’t something from the other side. Maybe it was sent." Quinn stood, scanning the platform. The tiles near the body were dry, but three feet away, a puddle shimmered—not water. Too thick. Too iridescent. She crouched again, swiping a finger through it. The substance clung like oil, faintly warm. "You see this?" Eva leaned in, her breath hitching. "Residue. From a forced rift." Quinn wiped her finger on her trousers. "Someone opened a portal here. Deliberately." "Or closed one." Eva picked up the compass—the needle jerked toward the puddle, then spun wildly. "This guy was a middleman. Sold passage tokens to the Market. If he was cutting deals on the side, stepping on the wrong toes..." Quinn studied the man’s face. No fear. No surprise. His expression was almost peaceful. "He knew whoever did this." Eva’s grip tightened around the compass. "Or he trusted them." A shout echoed from the stairwell—forensics had arrived. Quinn straightened, pulling off her gloves. "You need to leave. Now." Eva hesitated, then shoved the compass into her satchel. "They won’t find anything. Not the kind of evidence they’re looking for." Quinn watched her go, the red curls disappearing into the gloom. The forensics team clattered onto the platform, their gear rattling. One of them paused by the iridescent puddle, frowning. "Oil spill?" Quinn didn’t answer. She stared at the broken token in the dead man’s hand. Three interlocking circles—one of them smudged, as if something had pressed against it from the other side. A fingerprint, maybe. Or a claw. She slipped the token into an evidence bag. It hummed faintly against her palm.