Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0S2FEG4SRHTHRBT0Z06RA

Detective Quinn dropped onto the filthy platform, boots crunching on shattered tile. Floodlights hung from tripods, slicing the shadows in harsh rectangles. A thin mist curled above the rails, ghost smoke that refused to settle. She tugged at her collar, stared at the body slumped near the yellow line. No railcar in sight. No witness in sight either. Just the corpse. DS Franco hovered at the edge of the tape, hands in his pockets. He lifted his chin. “Slipped. Fell onto the tracks. Head trauma killed him before the train even hit.” Quinn knelt. Concrete chipped beneath her knee. She circled the corpse, absorbing every jagged detail. No blood spatter. No scalp wounds. The victim’s head lay perfectly intact, tilted to one side as if he’d nodded off. Leather jacket zipped only halfway. Dark denim jeans clean. No sign of struggle. Franco snapped his fingers. “Shoe’s scuffed. He must’ve stumbled here, stepped back, tripped.” She reached for his foot. A black sneaker, unmarked. “Show me.” He lifted his leg. She traced the sole’s edge. No grit. No dust. She eased her glove under the sole. Perfect imprint. He bit his lip. “Then what? He climbed up, leaned back, fell forward?” Quinn’s gaze flicked upward, where the tunnel mouth swallowed the tracks. No stairwell. No exit. She rose, brushing grit off her knees. “Find me a camera. And tag this as suspicious.” Franco nodded, voice low. “Right away.” She took in the station. Bare brick walls spanned overhead, arching like a forgotten cathedral. Faded signs pointed to exits that no longer existed. Moss clung to damp grout. Water dripped somewhere unseen. She followed its sound, footsteps echoing. The beam from her torch stabbed at rat droppings, at half-buried ticket stubs stamped Camden Abandoned. It landed on a carving in the wall: a circle sliced by three parallel lines. Not graffiti. Something deliberate. She crouched. Ran her gloved finger along the cut: fresh, raw. The plaster crumbled in dust. Underneath, a hollow. Her fingertips brushed a bone-white token, half-buried in grime. She pried it loose. A small disc carved from knucklebone, etched with the same three lines. She slipped it into an evidence bag. Franco appeared behind her, camera in hand. “What’ve you got?” She shook the token. “Entry requirement. You see this market talk in uniform?” He frowned. “Black market? Illegal goods?” Quinn stood. The pendant’s weight sat heavy in her palm. She stared at him. “Not your average street deal. This token gets someone inside the Veil Market.” He blinked. “The what?” “The underground market that shifts every full moon. Sells enchanted relics, alchemical stuff.” She eyed Franco’s uniform. “Probably figured it was just a staging point.” He lowered the camera. “This guy—why would he have a token? And why leave it here?” Quinn slipped it into her pocket. “To return, or to lure someone.” She strode deeper into the station, Franco close at her heels. “See that panel?” She jabbed the aged brick. A seam lined the mortar. “It’s not structural. Someone hid a door here.” Franco put hand to wall. “I don’t feel—” “Use your gloves,” Quinn snapped. “Feel better?” She pressed. The panel shifted, groaned. A section swung inward like a yawning mouth, revealing a tunnel slick with condensation. Pipes overhead dripped water in steady taps. The air smelled of rust and ozone. Franco shone his torch. “No maintenance record says this exists.” She picked a jagged shard of plaster from the floor, held it like a dagger. “They didn’t build it for us.” He swallowed. “So what now?” Quinn dropped to one knee, adjusted the beam. She swept light along the floor. Strange footprints pressed into a thin layer of dust: elongated, three toes ending in razor points. Birdlike, but no bird could navigate this depth. The prints vanished around a bend. She marked them with chalk from her kit. A flicker of movement. Franco shivered. “There’s someone down there.” She stood, torch in one hand, shard in the other. “Stay back.” She slipped past him into the tunnel. Walls closed in. The beam picked out symbols scrawled in something dark—iron oxide? Dried blood? They twisted across the brick like vines. She knelt, fingers tracing a rune shaped like an hourglass. A memory jolted—Morris calling over the radio, breath ragged. She blinked it away. Franco’s voice floated to her. “We should wait for backup.” She ignored him. At the tunnel’s end, the corridor opened into a vast chamber. Low vaulted ceiling. Pools of water reflected torchlight. In the center, a stone altar ringed with candles. A body lay draped over it, face down. Satin cloak pinned by a brass brooch etched with protective sigils. A small bronze compass hung around the victim’s neck. Patina green and wet. She hurried forward, lunging to twist the brooch. The compass fell, needle spinning until it caught on a distant point, glowing pale green. She snatched it up, eyes widening at the sigils around its face. Protective runes she’d only read about. “This is a Veil Compass,” she murmured. Franco ducked under the altar, voice tight. “Looks like a ritual. Why would they bring a protective compass here?” She turned the compass, watched the needle quiver. It pointed back toward the broken panel. Then toward the ceiling, where a faint blue gleam pulsed behind the bricks. A portal. She’d seen them before in Morris’s files—unstable tears between worlds. This one hid in plain sight beneath Camden. Franco coughed. “We need forensics in here.” She dropped to inspect the victim’s cloak. Scarped stone bore grooves matching the compass’s sigils. Someone had carved them, carved this place to open a doorway. “This wasn’t theft or revenge. It was a summoning.” She closed her eyes, remembered Morris’s last case: a tear in reality, voices whispering. “He died here for the same reason.” Franco scanned the chamber. “Are you saying the station’s haunted?” Quinn slid a hand under the body, felt the enemy twist—the portal’s pull like a heartbeat. “Something older.” She pocketed the compass. “Notify London Occult Division. Seal off every exit. Then we find who brought him here.” Franco melted back into the tunnel entrance. His torch beam wavered, but he gave a firm nod. Quinn stepped to the edge of the portal’s glow. The air shimmered, water rippled in slow circles. She lifted the compass again. The needle quaked, then held fast. Directly at the center of the rupture. She stared at it, jaw set. No ordinary murder. Not a simple fall. Something had dragged him in. And Quinn would find it.