Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0Z9CEX0ZZN7SN47TYJRB4

Harlow Quinn checked her watch. The leather strap was tight around her left wrist, the black face illuminated by the flickering LED signs above the abandoned platform. Three in the morning. The Metropolitan Transit service had ended hours ago, but the Victorian ticket barriers still stood like sentinels. A gate hung open, forcing the wind to whistle through the concrete arches. The Veil Market didn't announce its arrival. It just materialized, a chaotic collision of neon signs and candlelight squeezed into the hollowed-out space beneath Camden. Quinn pressed her palms against her belt, forcing her breathing to sync with the sharp intake of the damp air. Her jaw was set, the muscles in her face hardening into a mask of stoicism. She scanned the perimeter. No uniformed police. No plainclothes detectives. Just a crowd of shadowy figures moving like a river around a submerged rock. She walked toward the back of the station, where the stalls were concentrated. The floor here was slick with pooled condensation and oil. There was a crowd gathered around the central stall. Quinn pushed through, her boots scuffing the tiles. They parted instantly, sensing the predator in their midst. "Move it," Quinn commanded, her voice low and gravelly. A man with a tattoo of a spider on his neck mumbled an apology and shuffled aside. Quinn stepped up to the wooden counter. Arthur Pendelton lay flat on his back, his neck bent at an impossible ninety-degree angle. He was a fence, a middleman for the underworld, and his inventory was always questionable. But this... this wasn't inventory. It was art. Blood pooled around his head, but it didn't soak into the wood. It glowed, a faint, sickly violet. "Quinn." The voice was soft, barely rising above the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights that had strayed to life in this sector. Quinn didn't turn. She crouched, inspecting the wound. The skin around the neck was cauterized, not cut. It looked like it had been branded by a torch, but the line was too clean, too thin. "Eva." Quinn kept her eyes on the wound. "You shouldn't be here." "I had to come," Eva said. Her curly red hair framed a face pale with anxiety, freckles dusting her cheeks like pepper. She pushed her round glasses up her nose, her fingers trembling slightly. "The rumors. I knew Arthur was the target." "Rumors get you killed." "This isn't a killing, Harlow. It’s a calling." Eva reached into her satchel, a worn leather bag covered in small tears, and pulled out a brass compass. The face was etched with protective sigils, the needle hovering still. "Step back, Evie. Let me work." "I won't. The residual magic... it's too thick." Eva spun the compass in her hand. The needle wasn't pointing north. It was vibrating, twitching erratically. "Look at the floor." Quinn looked down. There were no footprints leading *to* the body. No tracks in the pooling blood, no scuff marks on the tiles. Just Pendelton’s own shoes. The killer hadn't walked here. They had arrived without weight. Quinn stood up, stepping over the body. She placed a hand on the stall's edge. It was cold, unnaturally so. "He was dealing in Soul-fire vials yesterday. Maybe he found the wrong shipment." "You're overlooking the geometry," Eva said, her voice rising a fraction. She tapped the compass against the wood. "The spill isn't random. Look at where the blood stops." Quinn leaned in, studying the stain. It formed a perfect circle around Arthur’s head, but inside the circle, the wood was warped. It wasn't wet. It looked like the wood had been drilled into from below. A phantom drill. "Here." Eva pointed to the center of the circle. "Look at the distortion." Quinn squinted. It looked like a reflection, distorted by heat haze, but there was no heat. She pressed her fingers against the wood. It was solid. "You're overcomplicating this," Quinn said. She holstered her weapon and adjusted her belt. "It's a ritual. The Clique. They're sending a message." "It's not the Clique," Eva stepped closer, her hand hovering over the compass. The needle suddenly snapped upward, pointing straight down into the center of Arthur's chest. "They don't use tools like this. They use power. This..." Eva hesitated. "This is surgical." Quinn turned to face her. The detective’s eyes were cold brown pits, assessing. "Surgical how? The guy's neck is branded." "I didn't say it was a bullet or a blade," Eva whispered, her gaze darting from the body to the empty space above the stalls. "Look at the shadows." The overhead lights flickered again, casting long, dancing shadows against the concrete columns. But these shadows weren't following the light. They were pulsing. One large shadow detached itself from Arthur’s form and stretched across the floor toward the tunnel entrance. It looked like a claw. Quinn drew her gun. "Stay behind me." "I told you, you're wrong." Eva’s hands were gripping her satchel straps tight enough to whiten her knuckles. "He wasn't killed, Harlow. He was harvested." "For what?" "His organics," Eva said, her voice trembling. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, rolled parchment. "I found this in the restricted archives. A receipt from 'The Gilded Cage.' Arthur bought a specific containment unit for a guest yesterday. I thought it was just for storage." "Containment unit." "He bought a 'patient.' And now he's the patient." Eva’s eyes went wide behind the lenses of her glasses. "Look at the blood again." Quinn looked. The purple glow was intensifying, creeping up Arthur’s neck. "It's not blood, Harlow. It's tonic." Eva grabbed Quinn’s elbow, her fingers digging in hard. "It's accelerating his transformation. He's becoming what the buyer wants." Quinn felt a chill that had nothing to do with the underground air. She looked at the closed ticket barriers at the far end of the platform. The heavy iron gates were vibrating. A low thrumming sound emanated from the darkness beyond. "They're coming," Eva whispered, spinning the compass. The needle was spinning so fast it blurred. Quinn holstered her gun and reached out, grabbing Eva by the lapels of her coat. She didn't pull her close; she planted her feet, anchoring the scientist in place. "Not us," Quinn said, her voice low and commanding. "Them." The shadows detached fully from Arthur’s body. They rose up the stone pillars, elongating into humanoid shapes. They weren't people. They were smears of ink, dripping with darkness. Quinn aimed her weapon at the nearest shadow. "Get ready to run." Eva nodded, her mouth tight with fear, her hand resting on the brass compass. The needle was no longer moving; it had locked in place, locked on Quinn.