Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR72VSFHC3PDNDNKJS1BVD

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped into the derelict tube station beneath Camden, her boots crunching against the scattered debris of a place long abandoned by commuters. The air smelled damp, thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic that clung to the back of her throat. Her sharp jaw tightened as she scanned the scene ahead. Yellow police tape cordoned off a section of the platform where a body lay sprawled on the cracked tiles, surrounded by evidence markers and the hum of forensic activity. The Veil Market. Even the name sent a flicker of unease through her. She’d heard whispers of it in certain circles, a place where the city’s shadows congregated to trade in the bizarre and the forbidden. This wasn’t her jurisdiction, but the call had come in late last night—a detective she knew vaguely, asking for her expertise. “Something’s off,” he’d said. “You’ll understand when you see it.” She approached the body, her worn leather watch ticking softly against her wrist. The victim was a man in his late thirties, dressed in a tailored suit that seemed out of place in the grime of the station. His face was pale, almost waxy, and his lips tinged blue. The cause of death seemed obvious at first glance—a single gunshot wound to the chest. But something about the scene gnawed at her. “What do you think?” She turned to see Detective Sergeant Evans approaching, his forehead creased with lines of fatigue. He was younger than her, mid-thirties, with a perpetually rumpled look that belied his sharp mind. “Too clean,” she said, nodding toward the body. “No signs of a struggle. No gunpowder residue on his hands. Whoever shot him did it cold, deliberate. But why here? This place reeks of desperation. Doesn’t fit the profile.” Evans shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Could be a deal gone bad. This is the Veil Market, after all. You know what they trade here.” She didn’t respond, crouching down to examine the body more closely. The man’s suit was pristine, not a wrinkle or tear in sight. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. She reached out, touching the fabric of his sleeve—cold and stiff, almost like it had been frozen. “Strange,” she murmured. “What is?” “The state of the body. Rigor mortis usually sets in after a few hours, but this feels… off. Like he’s been like this for days.” Evans frowned. “That’s impossible. He was found less than twelve hours ago.” She stood, brushing her hands against her trousers. “Exactly. Something’s not adding up.” Her gaze shifted to the surroundings, taking in the details she’d missed earlier. The platform was littered with trash—empty bottles, torn newspapers, and the remnants of what looked like makeshift stalls. But there was something else, something almost imperceptible. Scratches on the walls, deep gouges that didn’t look like they’d been made by human hands. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the marks. Evans followed her gaze, his expression tightening. “We figured it was vandalism. Kids or something.” “Kids don’t usually carve symbols into concrete with their bare hands.” She moved closer, running her fingers over the scratches. The lines were jagged, forming patterns that seemed almost deliberate. Protective sigils, she realized with a start. She’d seen them before, in an old case that had gone cold years ago. “You think it’s related?” Evans asked, his voice tinged with skepticism. “Maybe. But I’m not sure how.” Her eyes caught on something glinting faintly under the flickering fluorescent lights. She knelt down again, picking up a small brass object from the debris. A compass, the face etched with intricate markings. The casing was weathered with a patina of verdigris, and the needle spun lazily before settling in a direction she couldn’t immediately place. “What’s that?” “A Veil Compass,” she said, turning it over in her hands. “Rare. Expensive. They’re used to locate supernatural rifts or portals. Why would he have this?” Evans crossed his arms, his skepticism deepening. “So, what? You think this was some kind of occult ritual?” “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.” She glanced back at the body, her mind racing. The pristine suit, the coldness of the skin, the protective sigils, the compass—it all pointed to something beyond a simple murder. “We’re missing something,” she said finally. “Something big.” Evans sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, Harlow, I get that you’re thorough, but sometimes a murder is just a murder. Maybe he crossed the wrong guy. Happens all the time in places like this.” She shot him a sharp look, her military precision snapping into focus. “That’s the problem. You’re seeing what you expect to see, not what’s actually here. Look closer.” He hesitated, then crouched down beside the body, examining it more carefully this time. “Fine. What am I missing?” “His hands,” she said, pointing to the man’s fingers. “Look at the nails.” Evans frowned, leaning in closer. The nails were discolored, almost blackened, with faint traces of something that looked like ash. “What the hell?” “Exactly. And look at his face. His eyes.” Evans glanced up at her, then back at the body. The man’s eyes were wide open, the irises an unnatural shade of silver that seemed to glint in the dim light. “What does that mean?” “I don’t know yet. But it’s not natural.” She straightened, slipping the compass into her coat pocket. “We need to dig deeper. Find out who he was, what he was doing here, and why someone wanted him dead.” Evans stood, his skepticism replaced by a flicker of curiosity. “You’re sure about this?” She nodded, her gaze fixed on the body. “He didn’t just die here. Something happened to him. And whatever it was, it wasn’t human.” The station seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening as the reality of her words settled between them. Evans glanced around, his unease palpable. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Where do we start?” She turned, her eyes scanning the platform once more. “The compass points northwest. Let’s see where it leads us.” They moved off the platform, following the direction of the needle. The tunnel ahead was dark, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly acrid. The beam of Evans’ flashlight cut through the gloom, illuminating graffiti-covered walls and discarded trash. As they walked, the compass needle began to spin erratically, then stopped abruptly, pointing to a section of the wall covered in more scratches. “Here,” she said, stopping in her tracks. Evans shone the light on the wall, revealing a pattern of sigils similar to the ones on the platform. But there was something else—a faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt. “What is that?” “A rift,” she said, her voice low. “Some kind of portal. That’s what the compass is pointing to.” Evans took a step back, his flashlight trembling slightly. “You’re saying someone—or something—came through here?” She nodded, her mind piecing together the fragments of the puzzle. “And I think it’s still here.” The air around them seemed to shift, a low hum vibrating through the tunnel. Evans glanced over his shoulder, his unease growing. “We need to call for backup.” “No,” she said firmly. “Not yet. Not until we know what we’re dealing with.” He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Alright. But if things go south, we’re out of here.” She didn’t respond, her focus locked on the shimmering air. Whatever was on the other side, it held the answers they were looking for—and she wasn’t about to stop until she found them.