Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0TPS78ATMK9THF6SG0NEJ

The rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof of the abandoned platform, drowning out the distant rumble of the Northern Line. Neon pylons staked out territory along the pitted walls, bathing the crowd in sickly cyan and magenta. The smell of ozone and frying lard hung heavy in the damp air. Harlow Quinn checked the buckle of her belt for the third time in as many seconds. The leather was worn smooth on the corners, her left wrist tapping a rhythmic, impatient tattoo against the heavy, brown leather watch. It was a tactical move, she told herself. It kept her ready to draw. Or it kept her focused, which was a lie. She was distracted. Three years. Three years since the ride-along where DS Morris vanished into the static of a dimensional breach. Since then, the Clique had been a blip on the radar—nefarious occult types running some kind of empire out of a fictional book series. But she could feel it. A frequency vibrating in the marrow of her bones. "Harlow." The voice sliced through the ambient noise, crisp and precise. Quinn didn't turn immediately. She kept her eyes scanning the crowd, her gaze landing on a stall selling jars of cloudy liquid. *Just a butcher, or something worse?* Then she smelled the ozone on the girl. "Eva." Quinn stepped into the light, the heels of her boots clicking sharply on the industrial floor. She ignored the couple huddled by the turnstiles and walked straight to the crime scene. Eva Kowalski stood over the body, crouching like a praying mantis. Her curly red hair, usually a halo of messy energy, was damp and plastered to her forehead. Round glasses sat low on her nose, slightly askew, but she didn't reach up to fix them. Her hands hovered over the body, hovering with a terrifying lack of hesitation. "He looks peaceful," Eva said, her voice tight. "He's dead, Evie." "He’s *staring* at me." Quinn crouched down, her joints popping in the quiet air. She looked down. The victim was a man in his forties, dressed in a sharp suit that looked entirely out of place in the grime of the Veil Market. His face was slack, mouth slightly open. But it was the neck that caught Quinn’s eye. No blood. No puncture marks. No bruising. It was as if the man had simply… evaporated. "Lung collapse?" Quinn asked, though she knew the answer. Her background in the Met didn't just cover homicide; it covered the weird shit, too. "I don't think so." Eva reached out, her fingers trembling only slightly as she touched the man's collar. "Look at his shadow. It’s… pixelated." Quinn squinted. The rain hadn't touched the pavement yet, but the man's shadow on the wet concrete was fractured, the edges jagged like a bad photo. "It’s bleeding into the ether. The shadow realm is seeping out." "Exactly," Eva whispered, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind her left ear. She pulled a leather satchel from her shoulder, unzipping it with a harsh zip. "It’s a paradox. He’s in this dimension, but he can't stay. He’s being… processed." "Processed?" "Consumed by the Market," Eva said, pulling a slim, leather-bound tome from her satchel. She flipped pages with frantic efficiency. "Or the Price isn't paid." Quinn stood up, feeling the weight of her service weapon uncomfortable in its holster. She walked a slow circle around the body, checking for boot prints in the grime. None. No recent footprints from anyone entering the station. "They brought him here," Quinn muttered. "Without a ticket." Eva nodded, not looking up from her book. "Maybe he didn't have a choice. Maybe the Veil reached for him." "It doesn't work that way." Quinn snapped. She approached the nearest stall, a tarp-covered table piled high with mechanical curiosities. "What was he doing?" "Buying," Eva said simply. "Buying what?" "The Logic Engine," Eva said, tapping the page of her book. "A component that stabilizes rifts. It's... volatile." Quinn stared at the dead man. A trade gone wrong. But dead men didn't usually evaporate leaving fractured shadows. They bled. They screamed. They fought. This one had died with his hands in his pockets. A transaction, executed flawlessly. "Who sold him this?" Quinn asked. Eva hesitated, looking up over the rim of her glasses. "It's a new vendor. They haven't been on the official manifests." Quinn’s jaw tightened. The Clique. The clique was expanding. They were digging into the machinery of reality. "Stay here. Don't touch anything." "You have to find the dealer." "If I do, I need you to back me up." Quinn turned away, her movements military precise. Every step was a measured command. She didn't walk; she marched toward the back of the station. The crowd parted before her. Not out of respect, but out of fear. She felt it—the atmosphere shift as she approached. The neon lights flickered, dimming to a dull glow as she neared. She reached the dead man’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. It was crushed, like it had been in a hydraulic press. Quinn opened it. Empty. No IDs, no cards, nothing. Just smooth, crumpled leather. She pulled the Veil Compass from her belt. The small brass casing was cool to the touch, covered in a patina of verdigris. She flicked the lid open. The needle—black as pitch—was spinning, whirling in a frantic, dizzying circle. Usually, it pointed north. Or toward supernatural rifts. Right now, it was pointing at nothing. Or everything. "Not here," Quinn whispered. She needed a focal point. She thought of DS Morris. The man's face flashed in her mind, the way his hand had slipped off the edge of the platform three years ago. The final line of his radio call: *Target acquired. Deploying.* "Harlow!" Eva was shouting from where she stood over the body. The crowd around her was beginning to panic, pointing, murmuring. "He's not just fading. He's dissolving. Look!" Quinn ran back, her boots skidding slightly on the wet floor. She looked down. The man’s body was dissolving. Not dying, but falling apart. Dust motes were forming around him, glowing with a sickly violet light. It wasn't decomposition. It was un-manifesting. "He was never human in this timeline," Eva said, her voice trembling but steady. "He’s a recording, Harlow. A ghost in the machine." "He bought a component," Quinn snarled, her eyes scanning the periphery. "Who sold the component?" Eva looked up, her green eyes wide. "The dealer that moves. But he's not moving. He's building a pile." Quinn spun around. Down the length of the platform, crates were stacking themselves. Dust was turning into wooden planks. A voice, distorted and amplified by the speakers, began to blare through the station. *"THE TRANSACTION IS COMPLETE. THE PRICE HAS BEEN PAID."* The shadow on the wall grew larger. It wasn't a shadow of a man; it was the shape of a labyrinth, twisting and turning until it covered the entire wall. "He's building a wall to keep us in," Eva said, backing away, her satchel bumping into her legs. "He's building a cage," Quinn corrected. She stepped toward the growing wall of shadows. "Or a barrier." Eva grabbed her arm. "Harlow, stop! The Compass is acting up again." Quinn looked at the compass. The needle had stopped spinning. It was quivering, vibrating so hard it was shaking the casing. It was pointing not at the wall, but up. Straight up. Through the roof of the tube station, into the sky. "Get him to the surface," Quinn commanded, knocking Eva's hand away. "Call the boys. Tell them we have a lockdown in effect." "You're going in?" Eva asked. "I'm going to find the ghost in the machine." Quinn tightened her grip on the compass. "And I'm going to make him explain why DS Morris disappeared." She looked at the dying body of the stranger, now little more than a pile of glowing dust. Then she looked at the ceiling of the station, directly beneath the compass needle. A single beam of moonlight pierced the grime, illuminating a crack in the concrete above them—a crack that wasn't there a moment ago. "She's here," Quinn said, drawing her gun. "The shade artisan."