Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRDQ8WM2V6MCESMKJPCDC0

Detective Quinn clicked off her siren before the vehicle had settled. She stepped onto cracked asphalt, mud crusting the welted rubber of her boots. Brown eyes swept the platform walls, where chipped tiles revealed rusty girders. She flexed the strap of her leather watch under her sleeve. Military precision kept her shoulders square. Uniformed constable River knelt by the body, flashlight beam dancing over pale skin. He glanced up as Quinn approached. Flat on his back, the victim wore a tailor-made suit. No ID. One shoe lay six feet away, scuffed sole still bearing a faint imprint: a crescent moon and a leaf. River pointed. That isn’t from round here. Quinn crouched. No bruises around the neck, just a tidy slit in the throat. Blood formed a perfect circle on the tiled floor. She traced the outline with a fingertip gloved in latex. Fresh. No grit. The station had gone dark three hours ago. A shadow market moved in every full moon. She’d staked out this place twice: no normal trade. Tonight, someone died. Eva Kowalski stood at the edge of the pool of blood, green eyes behind round lenses glinting. Her curly red hair caught stray beams. She tucked a lock behind her left ear and clutched a satchel thick with vellum-bound tomes. He’s not human anymore, she whispered. Quinn rose. Purple bruise at the corner of the man’s jaw. Bruise didn’t match the clean cut. Say that to the medical examiner. Quinn brushed off River’s trouser leg and unfolded yellow tape. Let’s keep this simple. Eva lifted a small brass compass from the victim’s breast pocket. Her fingers trembled. Compass face etched in sigils caught the torchlight. Needle fluttered. It points to the rift. She jutted the device toward the tunnel mouth. Quinn snagged it in her hand. Heavy. Patina of verdigris around the edges. Sigils looked carved by a shaky hand. Shafts of moonlight filtered from fissures overhead. Betties midges swarmed. The compass needle spun half a dozen times before stopping—aimed at the far end of the platform, where graffiti of a winged skull streaked the wall. Evidence of the black market. Evie, don’t touch— She slipped it back into Eva’s palm. Doesn’t prove a rift killed him. She inspected the wound again. No charred edges. No seared flesh that might come from some unspeakable tear in reality. Only a razor-thin blade. River wiped his brow beneath the brim of his cap. Someone staged a supernatural scene. Evie pressed her lips. His blood glows under starlight, she insisted. You saw it. A trick of reflection. Quinn snapped a photo. Gave River the camera. Move back up the tunnel. That wall. The skull’s beak delinea­ted by fresh scratches. Could be the killer’s mark. The constable jotted notes. Quinn traced the scratched lines with her fingertip. They’re too deliberate. Eva unzipped her satchel and laid out parchment. Ancient symbols, recorded from the Veil Market archives. She leaned over the body. He was a broker. Went by Greyhand. Rumored to traffic in forbidden artifacts. Compass among them. Quinn stepped back. The compass’s brass face had been altered. Someone rubbed at the sigils, polishing parts of the edge to shinier brass. New metal glowed where the verdigris had worn away. A forgery. No Shade artisan would botch the patina. The real compass would read only supernatural energy, never spin at random. Eva fingered a runebook. His blood stains a protective ward. They’re trying to hide something. Her voice wavered. Hiding? Quinn knelt beside a puddle still wet under the corpse’s knees. She crouched until her face hovered over icy water. A single shoe print pierced the reflection. No other prints nearby. The second shoe belonged to Greyhand. Killers don’t follow normal patterns at the Veil Market. They drop bone tokens at entry. They vanish before dawn. But this one lingered. She drummed her fingertip against the tile. The wound shape struck her. A long, straight cut without hesitation. A surgeon’s hand. River spotted something. Fresh dust spilled around a column near the tunnel’s exit. He swept the beam over tiny granules. Quartz sand mixed with iron filings. Blood on the floor had no sand. So he brought sand in after the body. To muddy the scene. To cover footprints. Quinn stood, jaw set. Who would take the trouble to stage a supernatural killing? And why? Evie popped open a flask. Took a sip. Coldness stung her eyes. He died at 2:17. The glowing? Just residual moisture under these lights. She slammed the flask shut and shoved it back in her satchel. That compass points to one thing: a breach in reality. And you think a breach killed him. I know a breach can kill. She braced a knee on the platform. Stop pretending we’re not playing in a world you barely understand. Quinn crossed her arms. No illusions here. Only bodies. Evidence. Clues. She tapped the lens of her watch. The examiner’s ETA—twenty minutes. She turned back to the wall. That winged skull. The strokes were too neat, as if traced with a stencil. River clicked his tongue. Skulls in graffiti never align that well with foot traffic. Evie’s fingers gripped the compass so tight the edges cut into her palm. The needle jumped. She exhaled, eyes distant. Quinn picked up a discarded ticket stub near the drain. Black ink printed V-56. She brushed along the barcode—scratch marks across the surface. Smudged to unreadable. Someone tried to erase the stall where he’d boarded last train. Falsifying station. No V-56 at this line. She crumpled the stub. The killer didn’t just kill Greyhand. They wanted him silenced before he could testify about something bigger. Something so big they’d conjure a phantom murder scene. Eva’s gaze flicked from compass to corpse to Quinn. Then back to the compass. I found the compass at the market. He sold it to me. I wasn’t there when anyone died. Quinn inhaled. That compass led you to him. I buy curios for research, she said. I didn’t know— But you recognized the sigils from my thesis. The way your hand moved. That flash of satisfaction. You’ve been here before. Observing. Evie sank onto the bench behind her. Satchel thumped. I study these symbols because they saved my life once. I owe them everything. But I didn’t kill Greyhand. She met Quinn’s eyes. Full of fear. Quinn didn’t soften. Watch me finish my investigation before you frame me. River dug out a small evidence bag. Stone-cold determination settled in his shoulders as he approached Eva. No moments of doubt allowed. Only facts. Quinn signalled River to hold. She knelt beside Eva, eye-level with the compass. Run your thumb across the sigils. Eva hesitated. Then traced a finger. A shard of lacquer flaked off. Underneath, someone had scratched a different symbol. A circle with three spikes. Not ancient. Not protective. A twisted emblem. The Compass pointed to that rift. But it wasn’t a rift compass. It was a killer’s tool. A red herring disguised as a supernatural lure. Eva exhaled. The compass clattered to the ground, brass wheels spinning. She stared at Quinn. So what killed him? Quinn rose. Primed. Rain began to patter through cracks overhead, drumming on the tile in a steady rhythm. Water pooled around the body. She swept her arm toward the tunnel. A magistrate and forensics will want every print, every fragment. But I want a list of known killers who use trinkets as distractions. Check for any ties to the winged-skull tag. And find out who changed the station schedules. She paused. Backlit by the moon, her silhouette rigid as a soldier. A hanger-on ghost of the super­natural might think twice. River flipped open his notebook. Eva pressed her palms to her thighs. The platform settled into near silence. No market stall hawkers, no distant chatter—just the drip of water and the clank of authority closing in. Quinn nodded. Let’s move him. Keep the area sealed. She glanced at the compass, left it for the crime-scene team. Then strode deeper into the tunnel, plans already spinning in her mind. The veiled promises of magic faded behind her. Now, only one certainty remained: somebody went to great lengths to make murder look like something it wasn’t. And she’d find out who.