Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5HFJ65RGJ5P2AYFX5K3P

The abandoned Tube platform beneath Camden stretched into shadow, fluorescent work lights casting harsh pools of white against Victorian brick and decades of grime. Detective Harlow Quinn's footsteps echoed off curved walls as she descended the maintenance stairs, her worn leather watch catching the artificial glare. The air hung thick with dampness and something else—ozone, sharp and electric. "What've we got, Henderson?" Quinn's voice carried the weight of eighteen years on the force, each word measured and precise. Detective Inspector Henderson looked up from his notepad, sweat beading on his forehead despite the underground chill. "Victim's name is Marcus Webb, age thirty-four. Found him about three hours ago when the maintenance crew came down to check the old electrical systems." Webb's body lay sprawled across the disused platform, arms flung wide like he'd been thrown backward by tremendous force. His clothes—expensive suit, Italian leather shoes—seemed oddly pristine except for scorch marks radiating from his chest in perfect geometric patterns. No blood. No obvious wounds. Just those strange burns etched into fabric and flesh with surgical precision. "Crew find anything else?" "That's the odd bit." Henderson gestured toward the far end of the platform where crime scene tape fluttered in the station's perpetual draft. "They swear this section was cleared yesterday during routine inspections. Empty as the day they sealed it in '74. But when they came back today—" He paused, consulting his notes. "Well, aside from the body, they found remnants of what looks like a market." Quinn's sharp jaw tightened. She'd worked enough cases to know when details didn't align, when witnesses held back crucial information. Moving past Henderson, she approached the taped-off area. Scattered across the platform lay wooden crates, their contents spilled and trampled. Glass vials containing unidentifiable liquids. Torn fabric that might once have been market stalls. And everywhere, a fine residue of ash that clung to her fingertips when she crouched to examine it. "Medical examiner's initial assessment?" "Heart failure, but Patterson says he's never seen anything like those burn patterns. They go right through the clothing but don't match any electrical equipment down here. The power's been off to this section for thirty years." Quinn lifted a fragment of green glass, holding it to the light. The liquid inside had crystallized, leaving behind formations that resembled tiny bones. She'd seen similar residue before—three years ago, the night Morris disappeared. The night that ended her faith in logical explanations. "Sir, you should see this." Henderson's voice carried across the platform from the victim's position. Quinn pocketed the glass fragment and joined him beside the body. In Webb's left hand, partially concealed by his sleeve, something metallic glinted. "What is it?" "Looks like a compass, but—" Henderson frowned, leaning closer. "The needle's spinning like mad. Won't hold steady on any direction." Quinn knelt beside the corpse, careful not to disturb the scene. Webb's fingers clutched a small brass compass, its casing green with verdigris. Strange symbols had been etched around the face—not magnetic compass points, but something far older. The needle spun in lazy circles, occasionally pausing as if drawn by invisible forces. "Henderson, when exactly did the maintenance crew discover the body?" "Round half-past seven this morning. Why?" "And they finished yesterday's inspection when?" Henderson flipped through his notepad. "According to their supervisor, they wrapped up around four in the afternoon. Locked the access gate behind them." Quinn stood, brushing dust from her knees. The timeline felt wrong. Webb's body showed no signs of rigor mortis, suggesting death had occurred recently. But the market debris looked older, settled. As if two separate events had somehow occupied the same space. "Detective Quinn?" A woman's voice echoed from the platform entrance. Quinn turned to see a figure with curly red hair and round glasses, carrying a worn leather satchel. The newcomer moved with nervous energy, repeatedly tucking hair behind her left ear as she approached the crime scene tape. "I'm Eva Kowalski from the British Museum. I believe this relates to my research." Henderson stepped forward, hand raised. "Ma'am, this is an active crime scene. You'll need to—" "Let her through." Quinn's interruption carried authority that brooked no argument. Something about the woman's presence felt significant, another piece in a puzzle that refused to follow conventional logic. Eva ducked under the tape, her green eyes taking in the scattered debris with recognition rather than surprise. "You found evidence of the Veil Market." "The what?" "An underground network that operates in abandoned spaces throughout London. They deal in items most people would consider impossible." Eva opened her satchel, withdrawing a leather journal filled with handwritten notes and sketches. "My research suggests they move locations regularly, always staying ahead of authorities." Quinn examined one of Eva's sketches—a brass compass identical to the one clutched in Webb's dead fingers. "What can you tell me about this?" "It's called a Veil Compass. Supposed to point toward supernatural energy sources rather than magnetic north. If Webb had one, he was either a buyer or—" Eva's voice trailed off as she noticed the geometric burns on the victim's chest. "Or he tried to steal from the wrong people." Henderson snorted. "Supernatural energy sources? Come off it. This is a murder investigation, not some fantasy novel." But Quinn remembered Morris, remembered the impossible things she'd witnessed three years ago. The official report called it a gas explosion, but she'd seen the shadows move with purpose, seen reality bend in ways that defied explanation. "Eva, what would cause burn patterns like these?" "Protective wards, most likely. The market vendors guard their wares carefully. If someone tried to take something without paying—" She gestured toward Webb's body. "The items themselves can be lethal." Quinn knelt again beside the corpse, this time focusing on his other hand. Webb's right fist remained clenched around something small. Using her pen, she carefully pried open the rigid fingers. A bone token tumbled onto the platform—yellowed ivory carved with symbols that matched those on the compass. But this token had been snapped cleanly in half. "Henderson, I want you to canvas the area above ground. Find out if anyone saw Webb enter the Camden tube network yesterday evening." "What about you?" Quinn stood, slipping the broken token into an evidence bag. The brass compass continued its restless spinning in Webb's other hand, occasionally pointing toward the deeper tunnels before resuming its circular dance. "I'm going to follow where the evidence leads." Even if that meant accepting possibilities she'd spent three years trying to forget.