Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX59J9KZGXS96N6GYCZ7BF

The platform was damp, slick with condensation that dripped from cracked tiles like slow, steady tears. Detective Harlow Quinn stood at the top of a broken escalator, her boots rooted in the grime of what had once been a functioning Tube station — before it became something else. The air smelled of rust, ozone, and beneath it, something bitter. Like burnt hair. She glanced at her watch. Not for the time, but for the habit. The leather strap groaned against her wrist, worn thin from years of pulling it tight when she needed to focus. Below, the crime scene tape fluttered in a draft that had no source. A body lay sprawled on the tracks, limbs splayed unnaturally, clothes torn not by impact, but by something sharper. Cleaner. The forensic team huddled nearby, their flashlights flickering as if the electricity resisted them. Quinn descended slowly, her gait measured. Her eyes scanned the walls first — fractured ceramic tiles, graffiti in no language she recognized, symbols that seemed to shift if stared at too long. One of the uniforms approached, clipboard trembling in his grip. “Detective. We found him an hour ago. No ID. No CCTV — none of the cameras down here are active, even the ones that should be on auxiliary. Medics say he’s been dead less than thirty minutes, but… sir, his insides are gone.” Quinn didn’t flinch. She kept walking. “Wrong,” she said. The officer blinked. “Ma’am?” She stepped over the tape, crouched beside the body. The man was pale, eyes wide open and clouded, mouth frozen in a soundless scream. His chest was caved in, but not crushed — excavated. The ribs had been splayed outward, the cavity inside hollowed, organs missing. But no blood. Not a drop. The tracks beneath him were dry. She pulled her gloves on one knuckle at a time. “If he’d been dead thirty minutes, there’d be pooling. Rigor would’ve started. Liver temp doesn’t match. Someone moved him here after time of death.” She rose, circled the body. Her gaze caught on a small brass disc near the victim’s right hand — half-buried in grime. She knelt again, didn’t touch it. A bone token. Human femur, roughly carved. She’d seen one once before, three years ago, clutched in the fist of her partner, DS Morris. The night he disappeared. The night the ambulance never arrived. The night the incident report vanished. “Detective.” A voice, light but steady, came from behind her. Quinn turned. Eva Kowalski stood at the edge of the platform, satchel slung over one shoulder, round glasses reflecting the dim glow of emergency lights. Her red curls were damp from the tunnel’s humidity, and she tucked a loose strand behind her left ear — a nervous habit Quinn had learned to read like a tell. “What are you doing here?” Quinn said. “I was called,” Eva said. “By the museum. They were notified about unusual energy signatures. I’m the closest consultant.” Quinn narrowed her eyes. “You’re not police. You don’t get clearance for active scenes.” “I do,” Eva said softly, “when the Home Office flags a death as Class-5 occult contamination. Which this one just did. You’d know that if your request for jurisdiction hadn’t been rerouted.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. “You’re telling me the Home Office classified this as what? Witchcraft?” “A more precise term would be *dimensional displacement*,” Eva said, stepping forward. “But yes.” Quinn exhaled through her nose. “The cause of death is blunt force trauma. He fell from the platform.” Eva crouched beside the body, careful not to cross any lines, and gestured to the victim’s shoes. “No scuff marks on the soles. If he’d fallen, even from up there, he’d have dragged one foot. He was placed. And look at the angle of the ribs — pried open from the inside. Not torn. Deliberate. Surgical.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “No,” Eva agreed. “Unless you consider *what* might want to remove a human heart without spilling blood.” Quinn didn’t answer. She stepped back, scanned the tunnel. The rails hummed faintly. Not from current — they hadn’t carried power in decades. She walked to the wall, ran her fingers along a symbol etched into the tile. It wasn’t paint. It was *cut*. Fresh. Eva followed. “That’s a ward. Old. Faint, but active. Meant to repel *something*.” “Then why is it on the inside of the station?” Eva smiled, just slightly. “Because the danger wasn’t coming in. It was already here.” Quinn moved on. Her eyes caught a glint near the third service door — a small object half-covered by debris. She crouched, used her pen to lift it. A brass compass. Tiny. Corroded green with age. The face bore markings she didn’t recognize — tight, angular sigils that seemed to vibrate under light. The needle spun once, twice, then locked — not north, but down the tunnel, eastward. She turned it over. On the back, a single word, scratched in hurried script: *Close*. Eva inhaled sharply. “That’s a Veil Compass,” she said. “They don’t exist outside the Market.” “The what?” “The Veil Market. It’s a network. A black market for things that aren’t supposed to exist. Rifts. Artifacts. Forbidden knowledge. It moves. Full moon. New location. Last known site was Brixton. But if this is here…” Quinn stood. “Then it’s underneath Camden now.” Eva stared at her. “You know about it.” “I know I found one of these in Morris’s pocket the night he vanished,” Quinn said, voice low. “I know the report was scrubbed. I know no one would tell me what he was investigating. I know he died down here — or something like it.” Silence settled between them, thick with things unsaid. Eva took a breath. “This man wasn’t murdered. He was a *key*.” Quinn looked at her. “They take the heart,” Eva said, “not to kill. But to *unlock*. Some portals require a living sacrifice. A conduit. His heart was removed while he was still alive — that’s why there’s no blood. It was consumed by the rift. That’s why the air tastes like burnt hair. Dimensional bleed.” Quinn turned back to the body. Re-examined the ribcage. The edges weren’t jagged. They were smooth. Clean. Like they’d been dissolved from within. She looked down the tunnel again. The compass needle still pointed east. “How close is the rift?” Eva hesitated. “If the compass is active… close enough to open. Tonight. During the moonrise.” Quinn holstered the compass, reached for her radio. It crackled with static. Dead. She turned to the officer at the top of the escalator. “Evacuate the station. Now. Call for backup. Armed response.” The uniform hesitated. “We don’t have jurisdiction this deep—” “I don’t care,” Quinn said. “Get them out. Something’s coming. And it’s not human.”