Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0FW7MSY82GAJSGBRP98N4

The fog curled thick around the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, pressing in like some secret beast waiting to pounce. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped out of her car, badge glinting faintly in the dim, flickering glow of a single overhead streetlamp. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair clung to her forehead, damp from the pre-dawn mist. The entrance was barricaded with rusted metal shutters, half-sunk into the cracked pavement. Evidence markers dotted the damp ground—some dark smear that could be blood, others just sludge. Quinn’s sharp jaw tightened as she approached, eyes scanning the scene with military precision. Her worn leather watch caught the faint glow of her wristlight as she pulled it up, squinting at the dimly lit interior. The station was silent save for the distant drip of water echoing along the hollow tunnels. She moved with deliberate purpose, her boots crunching softly on broken concrete, past the evidence markers until she reached the center of the impact zone. A figure waited there, arms crossed, leaning against a rusted turnstile that looked more like a relic from another century. Detective Marcus Leyton, his face shadowed beneath a battered baseball cap, looked up as she approached. “You’re late,” he grinned without humor, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “Traffic’s a nightmare,” Quinn replied, eyes narrowing. “What’ve we got?” Leyton hesitated, then gestured towards the ground. “He’s a local—climber, apparently. Police found him beneath the tracks, no signs of forced entry, no struggle.” Quinn crouched, her gaze flickering over the body. The man’s clothes were soaked, dirt smudged across his face. No visible wounds, no blood, but a strange, faint glow clung to him—like he’d been caught in something supernatural, some residual flicker of energy. She moved closer, humming softly to herself. "No signs of trauma. No weapon. The position's odd—arms stretched out as if he fell, but... no signs of a fall." Leyton shrugged. “That’s what I thought. But the coroner’s on his way. So far, none of the usual signs—no drugs, no alcohol. Just an odd aura about him, like he’d been... disturbed.” Quinn’s gaze drifted over the scene. The body was near the edge of the platform, but the tracks looked undisturbed, no signs anyone had fallen or been pushed. The fare's glow pulsed faintly, almost alive, as if some unseen force clung to him. She straightened abruptly. “Did anyone notice anything unusual? Reports? Witnesses?” Leyton shook his head. “Nada. But someone’s been here before us. The station’s been dead, but the evidence cards were moved. Someone’s clearly been messing around with the scene.” Quinn’s brow furrowed. She looked at the body, then out into the shadows of the tunnel, where faint markings—scratches or symbols—etched into the damp wall caught her eye. She squatted again, eyes narrowing as she leaned in. They weren’t regular graffiti. The symbols shimmered faintly, faint golden lines etched into the damp wall, almost like an old dealer’s sigil crossed with something arcane. She brushed her fingertips over them, feeling the rough texture, noticing the slight warmth—they felt alive, humming beneath her skin. “Someone’s trying to tell us something,” she murmured. “But what?” Leyton shrugged again. “Scientists won’t figure this one. Looks like local occult groups are trying to get our attention. Or hide something.” Quinn’s gaze hardened. “Or someone’s playing with forces they don’t understand.” Her eyes drifted to the body, then to the symbols one more time. She remembered the Veil Market—an underground nexus, an eerie bazaar under Camden where enchanted artifacts and forbidden lore traded hands for the right price. She’d heard the rumours about supernatural rifts, about the veils thinning. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t an accident. She pulled her leather satchel closer, fingers brushing against its worn surface. Inside, she kept her evidence kit and, more secretly, her small, brass Veil Compass, crafted by a Shade artisan at the Market. She flipped it open now, watching the face etched with protective sigils, its needle flickering toward some unseen rift. The compass’s needle quivered suddenly. Leyton’s eyes darted toward it. “What’s that?” “Supernatural energy,” Quinn said quietly. “This always points toward a portal or a deep disturbance. And right now, it’s telling me we’re not done here.” She closed the compass with a sharp click, eyes narrowing at the symbols. She’d seen their ilk—arcane warnings, perhaps, or a message meant for someone who knew how to interpret them. She knew the Market’s stories; ottices, shady mentions of bone tokens and enchanted goods. Someone had moved something here, something that disturbed a delicate balance. She stood, brushing dirt from her knees. “I want a full sweep of the tunnel. Search for traces—any residue, footprints, or traces of an artifact. The symbols might be tied to the cause of this.” Leyton hesitated, then nodded. “Got it.” Quinn turned her gaze back to the body. The man’s face was serene, almost peaceful—except for the faint golden glow that flickered like dying embers across his skin. She knelt again, inspecting the area around him, noting how the ground beneath his body shimmered faintly, like an afterimage. She was about to step back when a faint crackle came through her radio. The voice on the other end was muffled, urgent. “Detective Quinn, we’ve got movement at the entrance. Someone’s heading your way.” She kept her eyes on the body, then slowly turned her head toward the tunnel’s mouth. Too late, she sensed. Someone was watching—their presence just beyond what the eye could see, waiting to see if she’d slip up. She reached into her satchel, fingers closing around the compass again. The needle shimmered, not pointing to the tunnel or the body anymore, but just slightly off—toward the deepest part of her own intuition. Whatever this was, she thought, it had only just begun.