Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR63B4VV47GS97SV98X1MQ

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots clicking against the cracked tiles. The air hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, their sickly glow casting long shadows across the graffiti-scarred walls. A uniformed officer nodded at her as she passed, his face tight with the kind of tension that came from seeing something you couldn’t unsee. "Detective Quinn." DS Carter stood near the far platform, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was young, still had that eager shine to him, the kind that hadn’t been scrubbed off by too many nights spent staring at crime scene photos. "Glad you could make it." Quinn adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. "What’ve we got?" Carter gestured toward the body. A man, mid-forties, sprawled across the tracks. His suit was expensive, tailored, the kind of thing you didn’t wear to a place like this unless you had a damn good reason. Or a very bad one. His face was frozen in an expression that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite surprise—more like he’d seen something impossible and hadn’t had time to process it. "Victim’s name is Richard Voss," Carter said. "Financial consultant. No priors, no known enemies. Wallet’s still on him, cash intact. No signs of struggle." Quinn crouched beside the body, her knees popping. She didn’t touch anything, just let her eyes trace the details. The man’s tie was loose, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His shoes were scuffed, the leather worn at the heels. Not the kind of wear you got from a day at the office. "Time of death?" "ME’s initial estimate is between midnight and two AM. No defensive wounds, no ligature marks. Tox screen’s pending, but no obvious signs of poisoning." Quinn stood, her gaze flicking to the platform above. A single set of footprints in the dust led to the edge, then stopped. No scuff marks, no signs of hesitation. Like he’d just... stepped off. "CCTV?" Carter shook his head. "Station’s been abandoned since the ‘90s. No cameras, no power. The only reason we found him is because a homeless guy sleeping in the tunnels called it in." Quinn exhaled through her nose, her fingers tapping against her thigh. "You said no signs of struggle. What about the body itself?" Carter hesitated. "That’s the thing. ME says it’s like he just... fell. No broken bones, no trauma consistent with a fall from that height. Just a few scrapes, like he landed wrong." Quinn’s jaw tightened. She stepped closer to the edge of the platform, peering down at the tracks. The body lay directly beneath, as if he’d dropped straight down. No momentum, no roll. Just a clean, vertical descent. "Any witnesses?" "None that we’ve found. But—" Carter pulled out his notebook, flipping to a page. "There’s this. Found it in his pocket." He handed her a small, crumpled slip of paper. Quinn smoothed it out. A single line was scrawled in neat, precise handwriting: *"The Veil Market moves tonight."* She stared at the words, her pulse kicking up a notch. She’d heard whispers of the Veil Market before—rumors, really. A black market for things that didn’t exist. Things that shouldn’t exist. She’d dismissed them as urban legends, the kind of stories cops told each other over bad coffee to pass the time. But DS Morris had mentioned it once. Right before he died. Quinn folded the paper carefully, tucking it into her own pocket. "You said the ME found no trauma. What about the blood?" Carter blinked. "What blood?" Quinn pointed to the victim’s temple. A thin, dark line ran from his hairline down to his jaw. "That’s not dirt." Carter leaned in, squinting. "Huh. Looks like... a sigil?" Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen something like it before, in Morris’s notes. A symbol, half-finished, scrawled in the margins of a case file. She’d thought it was just a doodle. She turned back to the body. The man’s hands were clean, his nails trimmed. No dirt under them, no signs of a fight. But his right sleeve was pushed up, revealing a patch of skin just above his wrist. A faint, glowing mark pulsed there, like a brand. Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d seen that before, too. "Carter," she said slowly, "did the ME mention anything about... unusual readings?" Carter frowned. "Unusual how?" "EMF. Radiation. Anything that doesn’t fit." Carter shook his head. "Not that I heard. Why?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the mark on the man’s wrist. It wasn’t a tattoo. It wasn’t a burn. It was something else. Something that didn’t belong in this world. She pulled out her phone, snapping a photo of the mark before the ME’s team could cover the body. Then she turned to Carter, her voice low. "We need to talk to the homeless guy who called this in. Now." Carter opened his mouth to protest, but Quinn was already walking away, her boots echoing against the concrete. She could feel it in her bones—this wasn’t just another case. This was the same thing that had taken Morris. And she was going to find out what it was.