Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5587CBPPMPP2XB58CCED

The air in the abandoned Tube station hung thick with the scent of damp earth, ozone, and something cloyingly sweet, like rotting jasmine. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the concrete steps, her worn leather watch catching the flicker of fairy lights strung between stalls. The Veil Market. A place that shouldn't exist, tucked away in the forgotten veins of London. Her sharp jaw was set, her bearing a relic of a military life she’d left behind but never truly escaped. A uniformed officer nodded her through the makeshift cordon of police tape. The scene was a small clearing near the derelict platform edge, cordoned off by more tape that fluttered in the constant, sourceless breeze. A young detective sergeant, Miller, was already there, notebook in hand, looking pale under the bruised-purple glow of the market’s enchanted lanterns. “Quinn. Glad you’re here.” He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the body slumped against a stack of old railway sleepers. “Nasty bit of business.” Quinn didn’t answer. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, the snap of the latex echoing in the cavernous space. Her eyes swept the area, taking in the whole before she focused on the parts. The victim was male, mid-thirties, dressed in clothes that were too clean for this place. His head lolled to one side, mouth slightly agape. “Looks straightforward,” Miller continued, gesturing with his pen. “Overdose, most likely. See the syringe? Found it still in his hand. Cash scattered about. Classic deal-gone-wrong, or he got a bad batch of whatever he was buying. Happens down here all the time.” Quinn crouched, her movements economical and precise. She ignored the body for a moment, her gaze tracing the perimeter of the small clearing. The dirt floor was hard-packed, scuffed with countless footprints, but around the victim, it was strangely undisturbed. No signs of a struggle. No scuffle marks in the grime. The scattered banknotes looked placed, their crispness an insult to the filth around them. “The syringe,” she said, her voice low. “Yeah. Plunger’s depressed. Empty.” She leaned closer, her breath fogging in the cool air. The needle was pristine. No blood residue on the steel. The victim’s arm, where his sleeve was rolled up, showed no track marks, no puncture wound at all. The skin was unbroken. “Miller.” “Ma’am?” “Did you touch anything?” “Just the cash for evidence. Why?” She stood up, turning her back on the body and scanning the stalls. Most were shuttered, their wares shrouded in canvas. A few merchants watched from the shadows, their faces obscured. They were always watching. Her gaze dropped back to the ground, moving methodically, inch by inch, from the victim’s feet outward. That’s when she saw it. A glint of brass half-buried in the dirt near the man’s outstretched hand. She knelt again, using a gloved fingertip to brush the soil away. It was a small compass, no bigger than her palm. The casing was brass, with a greenish patina of verdigris blooming in the crevices. Intricate sigils were etched around its face, symbols that made the back of her neck prickle. The needle wasn’t pointing north. It was quivering, fixed on a point deep within the grimy wall of the tunnel. “What’s that, then?” Miller peered over her shoulder. “Some fancy trinket? Probably nicked it.” Quinn picked it up, the metal cool against her glove. She held it flat in her palm. The needle swung with her, then resolutely locked back onto the same spot on the wall. “Did you log this, Miller?” He blinked. “Didn’t see it. Looked like junk. You know how this place is, full of…” “It’s a Veil Compass.” “A what?” “A compass. It doesn’t point north.” She held it out. “It points toward the nearest supernatural rift. Or portal.” Miller shrugged, unimpressed. “So? Like I said, he probably stole it. Some rich tourist gets separated from their tour guide, loses their magical toys. Our guy finds it, gets high, and dies. End of story.” Quinn’s eyes narrowed. She looked from the compass to the victim’s clean hands, his expensive-but-practical boots. This wasn’t a user. This wasn’t a petty thief. A man like this didn’t end up in a place like the Veil Market by accident. And he certainly wouldn’t be carrying a tool like this unless he knew exactly what it was for. “You don’t ‘nick’ something like this on a whim, Miller. This is custom work. See the sigils? That’s Shade artisan craft. This thing costs more than your car.” She walked back to the body, crouching one last time. She ignored the staged syringe and the planted cash. Her eyes went to the man’s other hand, the one lying palm-up. In the centre of his palm was a small, dark burn, perfectly circular. The skin around it was blistered but not bleeding. It looked like an old wound. “He wasn’t here to buy anything,” she said, her voice cutting through the market’s low hum. “What are you talking about? The cash, the syringe…” “It’s a set piece. A distraction.” She stood up, turning to face Miller, the compass still in her hand. “Look at him. No defensive wounds. No signs of a fight. The scene is too clean, too perfect. This isn’t a mess. It’s a message.” She gestured with the compass towards the wall where its needle was aimed. “He wasn’t a user. He was a seeker. And he found what he was looking for.”