Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT09EJJMZP666T8RNAWSWF8

Damp tiles lined the walls of the abandoned Camden Tube station, slick with condensation that smelled of rust and old copper. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow police tape, her boots clicking against the concrete platform. The air hung heavy, colder than the London street above. She checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. 03:17. PC Miller stood near the edge of the tracks, torch beam cutting through the gloom. He turned as Quinn approached, face pale under the fluorescent emergency lights rigged to the ceiling. Place gives me the creeps, Guv. Never seen a tube station this deep on the maps. Quinn ignored the comment. She crouched beside the body lying on the tracks. A man, mid-thirties, dressed in a suit that cost more than Miller's annual salary. No visible blood. No struggle marks on the platform. Cause of death? Miller shifted his weight. Paramedics say heart failure. Looks like he just dropped. Quinn pulled on latex gloves. She lifted the man's eyelid. The pupil was dilated, fixed. She ran a finger along his jawline, mirroring the sharp angle of her own. Skin cold, waxy. She turned the hand over. Palm facing up. A burn mark sat in the centre, circular, precise. Heart failure doesn't leave a brand. Could be a medical device. Pacemaker malfunction. Quinn stood. She wiped her hand on her trousers. Her salt-and-pepper hair caught the light as she scanned the tunnel ahead. Darkness swallowed the rails fifty metres down. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small brass compass. Verdigris stained the casing. Sigils etched the face, glowing faintly in the low light. Miller stepped closer. What's that? Evidence. You're holding a toy compass at a murder scene. Quinn held the object flat in her palm. The needle spun wildly, then snapped toward the tunnel darkness. It vibrated against her skin. This points to energy signatures. Not magnetic north. Miller laughed, a short, nervous sound. Energy signatures. You sound like those conspiracy lot down at the museum. Quinn tucked the compass away. She walked toward the tunnel, torch beam sweeping the walls. Graffiti covered the tiles, but not spray paint. Symbols drawn in something dark and dried. She recognised the pattern from files on her desk. Cases marked unsolved. Cases like Morris. We need to secure the perimeter. Nobody goes in there. Miller blocked her path. Protocol says we wait for SOCO. You go in there alone, you compromise the scene. Quinn stopped. She looked Miller in the eye. Her bearing stiffened, military precision taking over. SOCO won't find anything here. This isn't a crime scene. It's a marketplace. Miller frowned. A marketplace? Down here? Look at the floor. Quinn pointed her torch at the ground. Dust lay undisturbed except for a single set of footprints leading into the tunnel. No exit prints. The victim hadn't walked out. He hadn't been dragged either. No scuff marks. He vanished. Or he was taken. Miller rubbed his neck. You think someone carried a grown man into that tunnel without leaving a trace? I think the rules of physics don't apply down here. Quinn moved past him. She stepped onto the tracks. Gravel crunched under her boots. The air pressure dropped, popping her ears. She stopped where the footprints ended. Empty space. A wall of brick stood ten metres ahead. Miller followed, hesitant. This is madness, Harlow. We need backup. Backup brings questions. Questions bring paperwork. Paperwork buries the truth. Quinn pulled the compass out again. The needle spun faster. The brass casing grew hot against her palm. She held it out. The needle pointed at the brick wall. There's a door here. It's a wall. It's a veil. Quinn reached out. Her fingers brushed the brick. Cold stone gave way to a ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. She pulled her hand back. The surface settled. Miller's torch flickered. He tapped the side of it. Battery's dying. It's not the battery. Quinn looked at her watch. The second hand ticked backward. She tapped the glass. The hand resumed forward motion. She glanced at Miller. He hadn't noticed. You see that? See what? Time skipped. Miller shone his light on the wall. Just bricks, Guv. Old London brickwork. Nothing else. Quinn holstered the compass. She walked along the wall, hand trailing the surface. Rough texture. Damp moss. She stopped at a specific cluster of symbols painted near the ceiling. Red ochre. Fresh. This marks the entry. Requires a token. Token? Bone. Human or animal. Doesn't matter, just needs life residue. Miller lowered his torch. You're talking about ritual magic. I'm talking about motive. Quinn turned back to the body. She walked over, crouching again. She checked the man's pockets. Wallet missing. Phone missing. Keys present. A small pouch tucked in the inner jacket lining. She pulled it out. Heavy. Cloth bound. Miller leaned in. What's in the bag? Quinn untied the string. Inside lay a fragment of bone. Polished. Carved with the same sigils as the compass. Entry ticket. Miller straightened up. So he was a customer. He was a buyer. And someone didn't want him leaving with the goods. Quinn stood. She held the bone fragment up to the light. It hummed, a low frequency that rattled her teeth. She looked at the tunnel again. The darkness seemed deeper now. Shapes moved in the periphery. Shadows detaching from the walls. We need to go. Miller backed away. Why? Because the market opens at the full moon. Quinn checked the sky through the grates above. Clouds parted. Full moon light filtered down, hitting the tracks. The shadows lengthened. Stretched toward them. The compass needle locked. It pointed straight at Miller. Quinn frowned. She adjusted her stance. The needle didn't move. It stayed fixed on the PC. Put the torch down, Miller. Miller gripped the handle tighter. What? The needle points to supernatural rifts. Or sources. I'm not a rift. Quinn stepped closer. She watched his eyes. Pupils dilated. Not from fear. From something else. You knew about this place. I found the body. That's my job. You led me here. Miller shook his head. Dispatch sent us. Dispatch doesn't know this station exists. Quinn's hand hovered near her service weapon. She kept her voice level. Who sent you, Miller? Nobody sent me. I was on patrol. Patrol doesn't come this deep. Miller swallowed. He looked at the bone fragment in Quinn's hand. He reached for it. Give that to me. Quinn stepped back. She pocketed the bone. Why do you want it? It's evidence. It's a key. And you're not taking it anywhere. Miller's face changed. The fear vanished. Replaced by a calm emptiness. He dropped the torch. It rolled on the tracks, beam spinning. You always were too curious, Harlow. Morris said the same thing. Quinn froze. The name hit her like a physical blow. She tightened her jaw. What do you know about Morris? He asked questions. Just like you. Miller moved. Fast. Faster than a human should. He lunged for her. Quinn sidestepped, grabbing his wrist. She twisted. Bone cracked. Miller didn't flinch. He swung his other hand. Quinn ducked. Her fist connected with his ribs. He didn't breathe out. Miller stumbled back. He straightened his jacket. The arm hung limp. You can't arrest me, Detective. I'm not on the payroll anymore. Quinn drew her weapon. She aimed at his centre mass. Stay where you are. Miller laughed. The sound echoed wrong. Distorted. Bullets won't work here. This is the Veil Market. Rules are different. Quinn kept the gun steady. Her hand didn't shake. She glanced at the compass. The needle spun wild again. Pointing everywhere. Then I'll make new rules. Miller smiled. He stepped into the shadows of the tunnel. The darkness swallowed him. Only his voice remained. Find the seller. They have what you want. Information about Morris. Quinn fired. The shot rang out. Sparks flew where the bullet hit the wall. No body fell. No sound of impact. She stood alone on the tracks. The torch light faded completely. Only the compass glow remained. The needle settled. Pointing deeper into the tunnel. Quinn holstered the gun. She checked her watch. 03:25. Eight minutes lost. She tightened the strap. She looked at the wall where the market entrance rippled. She walked toward the darkness.