Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0FST9SW6YBHARRKQJZJ0D

Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots echoed softly against the cold tiles of the disused platform. Fluorescent fixtures flickered overhead, struggling to breathe life into the shadowed cavern of the abandoned tube station beneath Camden. A thick scent of damp and rust clung to the air. The place felt forgotten, but that didn’t surprise Quinn. The Veil Market was more cryptic than any usual black market, and tonight, it had drawn the worst kind of violence into its underbelly. Quinn’s sharp jaw tightened as she surveyed the scene. Yellow police tape fluttered in the stagnant air, enclosing the body sprawled near the edge of the tracks. She took a slow breath, her worn leather watch catching the weak light. The victim—a thin man in his thirties, dressed in threadbare clothes far too light for the city chill—lay face down, arms splayed like a marionette cut from its strings. DS Morris crouched down beside the body, his expression softer than Quinn expected. He had been the one to call her in. His dark eyes flicked upward as she came closer. “Cause of death looks like blunt trauma,” Morris murmured, tapping his pen on a nearby ledge, “hit to the back of the head. Stunned him, maybe even killed outright before falling.” Quinn crouched beside him, letting her gaze roam the suit jacket, the broken spectacles cracked under one eye, the fingers clutching a folded scrap of parchment stained with ink. She reached out, ignoring the shudders the damp sent up her arms, and peeled the tatty paper from the hand. Morris stayed silent, watching. “Look at this,” Quinn said, voice clipped, brushing away the grime. The parchment wasn’t just any scrap of paper. A series of sigils inked in a manic swirl caught the weak light. They shimmered almost—like shadows twisting beneath the ink—though she could have been seeing things in the gloom. “Old occult stuff,” Morris said slowly. “A lot of nonsense. Probably from some local loon.” The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe. But it’s not the usual graffiti you find here.” They both knew the Veil Market was a place where things slipped between worlds, where magic and menace traded hands beneath the eyes of London’s surface. This wasn’t random violence. Something deeper lurked. Morris stood, brushing dust from his coat. “You’re reading too much into it, Quinn. This is just a robbery gone wrong. I reckon whoever did it panicked when confronted.” Quinn’s gaze drifted over the scene again, then down the tracks where the faint rumble of a distant train thrummed. Her watch tapped the platform lightly with a faint tick, a metronome to the pulsing quiet. “Look here.” She pointed to a smear of dark red—blood, but not the victim’s. The victim wore old clothes, but those prints were fresh, smeared along the edge, almost like they tried to drag something. Morris frowned, crouched again. “That could be from the attacker. Maybe left in a fight before the blow.” Her eyes moved beyond. “Doesn’t sit right.” Quinn stood, scanning the wider space. There was no sign of a struggle, no overturned crates or displaced bags—just the body, the blood, the scrap of parchment, and something else in the corner, half-buried beneath debris—an object glinting faintly brass-green. She strode over and picked it up. In her hand, the small brass compass felt heavier than normal. Its patina had a verdigris shine, the face etched with symbols she didn’t immediately recognise. The needle pointed sharply south-east, refusing to settle. Quinn turned it over in her palm. “Ever seen one of these?” she asked Morris. “No,” he admitted, eyes narrowing as he took the compass. “Looks like a vintage piece. But what is it doing here?” She shook her head. “It’s not vintage. This is a Veil Compass.” Morris blinked. “The compass that points toward supernatural rifts? That’s a myth.” “Not so much,” she replied, her voice hard. “Crafted by a Shade artisan. It tracks disruptions, portals, anything that doesn’t belong on this side.” He shuffled uneasily. “So what? Someone used it to find the Market? Or the killer dropped it?” Quinn knelt again, this time beside the body. She frowned at the victim’s hands, thin but calloused. Traces of ash under the fingernails and a faint scent of sulphur lingered in the air around him. “Not just a victim,” she murmured. “He was involved.” Morris exhaled. “Involved how? Or is that too much ‘occult’ explanation?” “No.” Quinn cut a glance at him. “I think whoever killed him didn’t want him here. Not just in the Market, but here. On the trail.” Morris looked up, confusion warring with concern. “What trail?” “Something’s opening beneath the city. Rifts. Portals. Whatever you want to call them. The Compass points there. This man tried to find it, got too close.” A soft scuffling sound caught their attention. Quinn spun, hand reaching for the holster she didn’t want to draw tonight, but it was Eva Kowalski stepping through the archway, her curly red hair shimmering like flame in the flickering lights, round glasses slipping as she tucked a lock behind her ear. “What are you doing here?” Quinn barked, her voice sharp. Eva held up a hand, calm. “I heard about the death. Thought you might need help.” Quinn studied her, noting the worn leather satchel hanging at Eva’s side, heavy as always with books and papers that looked nothing like proper police evidence. Morris gave a dry chuckle. “She’s the resident occult expert. Doesn’t get out much.” Quinn stared at Eva, then back at the Compass. “If you know anything about these sigils or this place, speak up.” Eva stepped forward, knees brushing cold concrete. She examined the parchment in Quinn’s hand, eyes tracing the looping ink. “This is the emblem of a Threshold Ward. It’s meant to protect—and sometimes trap.” Quinn’s brow furrowed. She folded the paper carefully. “Trap?” “Yes,” Eva said softly. “It prevents beings from crossing between realms—or keeps something locked in.” Morris’s gaze shifted from Eva to the body and back. “So someone was warding this spot? Was the victim trying to break through or reinforce the barrier?” Eva’s fingers hovered over the Compass. “The Compass reacted the moment he died. Portals nearby aren’t just open—they’re fluctuating. Something’s trying to force its way through.” Quinn folded her arms, weighing the pieces. “And the blood beside the tracks?” Eva’s eyes didn’t waver. “Not from this man. Someone or something else was hurt.” Noise echoed from the tunnel behind them. They tensed. “Then we’re dealing with more than a simple killing,” Quinn said. “Someone’s fighting nearby, and this body got caught in the middle.” “You’re not wrong,” Eva said, voice more certain. “The Veil Market is bleeding through to us tonight.” Quinn tightened her jaw. “Then we need to find that breach. Before more get hurt.” Morris shook his head. “Good luck with that. The Market’s a ghost on a full moon. We don’t even know where it is now.” Eva slid the Compass into her satchel. “We will. It’s already telling us.” Quinn’s eyes flicked up, sharp and clear. “Then it’s time to follow the trail others missed.”