AI The metallic sigh of the tunnel welcomed her before the light did. Harlow Quinn stepped through the rusted gate, the worn leather watch on her left wrist clicking against the pulse of her coat. The station’s ceiling dripped in rhythmic plinks, each drop echoing like a metronome in a vacant hall. Dust swirled in the beam from her torch, revealing rows of old signage half‑eroded to illegibility.
A body lay near the platform’s edge, right hand clenched around a brass compass, its face etched with sigils that glimmered faintly under the torch’s glow. The victim’s coat was torn , a slit along the side revealing a smear of dark, oily liquid that pooled on the stone. Harlow knelt, fingers brushing the edge of the compass, feeling a cold vibration that thrummed through the metal.
The compass needle quivered, then snapped to a direction that ignored the magnetic north. It pointed toward a wall where the stone seemed to breathe, a faint fissure pulsing with a violet hue. Harlow’s eyes narrowed; the fissure was no ordinary crack.
A rustle behind her announced a presence. Eva Kowalski emerged from the shadows, round glasses perched low, a satchel thumping against her side. Her curly red hair fell in a tangled halo, a strand slipping behind her left ear as she spoke.
“Looks like the market’s been busy,” Eva said, voice low, eyes scanning the scene.
Harlow tilted her head, watching the compass needle dance . “Compass points to nothing in this world,” she replied, voice steady .
Eva lifted a gloved hand, gesturing toward the fissure. “Or something else.”
The detective’s gaze lingered on the fissure, the violet light flickering like a living candle. The oil on the floor smeared in a pattern that resembled a spiral, each concentric ring evenly spaced, as if something had rotated around a fixed point before collapsing.
“Spiral of oil,” Harlow muttered, more to herself than to Eva. “Someone dragged a container here, spun it, then—”
Eva interrupted, tapping the edge of her satchel. “I found this in the restricted archives. A note about a “Veil Compass” used by Shade artisans to locate rifts. It says the needle obeys the rift, not the earth.”
Harlow’s thumb pressed the compass’s casing, feeling the patina of verdigris. “If the needle obeys a rift, why is it pointing at a wall that’s not a wall?”
Eva’s eyes flicked to the broken glass shards scattered nearby, each reflecting the violet glow. “Because the rift is not a wall. It’s a doorway hidden behind it.”
The detective’s jaw tightened. She lifted a piece of broken tile, turning it over. The underside bore a faint symbol, a loop intersected by a line, matching the sigils etched on the compass. “Someone knew this door existed.”
Eva’s shoulders relaxed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Or someone was trying to hide it.”
Harlow stood, shoulder to shoulder with Eva, the torch’s beam cutting across the tunnel. She examined the victim’s coat again, noticing a small, almost imperceptible stain of ash near the hem. The ash was fine, silvery, unlike the soot of a train fire.
“Ash on the coat,” Harlow said, voice low . “Not from a fire. From a burn.”
A sudden shiver ran through the tunnel, the violet light pulsing faster, the fissure widening slightly , revealing a glimpse of an interior that defied geometry—a space where angles bent and shadows moved against the grain.
Eva’s breath hitched. “The market moves every full moon. The Veil Market could be using this station as a portal hub.”
Harlow angled the flashlight toward the fissure, the beam caught on a series of faint, etched runes on the stone. The runes glowed in response, each flicker aligning with the compass needle’s direction. “Runes match the compass’s sigils,” she said, eyes narrowing .
Eva stepped closer, her satchel thudding against the floor. “If someone used the compass to locate this rift, they’d have known how to open it. They’d have needed a key.”
Harlow’s gaze fell to the victim’s hand. The fingers were curled around a small bone token tucked into the pocket of the coat. The token was smooth, polished, and bore the same sigil as the compass. “Token,” she whispered. “Entry token for the market.”
A low hum rose from the fissure, the violet light coalescing into a thin, wavering line that seemed to beckon . Harlow placed the compass on the ground, the needle steadied, pointing directly at the line. The victim’s eyes, though dead, had been fixed on the same direction before the fall.
“Someone stood here, watched the rift, then—” Harlow began, but Eva cut in.
“—was taken. Or taken something.”
Eva reached into her satchel, pulling out a leather‑bound notebook. She flipped to a page where a sketch of the Veil Compass sat beside a diagram of a portal’s architecture. “Shade artisans designed the compass to lock onto a rift’s resonance . If you disrupt that resonance , the compass scrambles.”
Harlow ran a finger over the diagram, feeling the raised ink. “If the resonance was disrupted , the compass would mispoint. But it’s still pointing at the rift.”
Eva’s eyes narrowed , the violet glow reflecting in them. “Maybe the rift is still active, but it’s being sealed.”
A sudden clatter echoed from deeper within the tunnel, the sound of metal striking stone. Both women turned, flashlights scanning the darkness. A faint silhouette moved near the far wall, dragging something heavy.
Harlow’s hand tightened on her holster. “Stay here.” She stepped forward, boots echoing , the air growing colder with each stride.
The silhouette halted, revealing a figure clad in a long coat, face obscured by a hood. The figure held a lantern, its flame flickering with a strange, blueish hue. The lantern’s light illuminated a small box, its lid open, revealing a set of bone shards arranged in a circle.
Eva whispered, “Those are part of a binding ritual. They seal a rift.”
Harlow stared, the compass needle now trembling, as if the rift itself were breathing . “Why would someone seal a rift in a market?”
The figure lifted the lantern, the blue flame licking the bone shards. The violet light from the fissure surged, the walls of the tunnel shimmering as if the stone were a membrane ready to burst.
“Someone wants to close the market,” Eva said, voice barely audible over the hum .
Harlow’s eyes flicked to the victim’s body, the compass still clutched in the dead hand. “But they left the token. They left the compass. They left a trail.”
The figure lowered the lantern, the blue flame dimming. “You’re looking at the wrong side of the rift,” the figure said, voice muffled by the hood . “You think you’re hunting a murderer. You’re hunting a gatekeeper.”
Harlow’s pulse thudded, her mind racing . She turned to Eva, the satchel now heavy with knowledge. “We need to know who opened this gate. Who closed it.”
Eva nodded, pulling a thin, copper‑copper script from her satchel. “I found a reference to a “Keeper of the Veil” in the archives. No name, just a warning: ‘When the compass spins, the gate cracks.’”
Harlow placed the compass on the ground again, the needle shivering as the violet light intensified. “If the compass spins, the gate cracks.” She stared at the needle, waiting for it to give up its secret.
The figure stepped back, the lantern’s flame sputtering, the violet light receding as if pulled by an unseen hand. The fissure narrowed, the glow dimming. The bone shards fell into the box, clinking like a soft chime.
“Someone left a clue,” Eva said, eyes alight with curiosity. “The token, the compass, the ash, the bone shards. All point to a ritual that was interrupted.”
Harlow crouched, fingers brushing the dust on the floor. She gathered a handful, letting it sift through her fingers. “If the ritual was interrupted, the rift is still partially open. The compass still feels it.”
Eva lifted the notebook, flipping to a page where a handwritten note read: “When the mouthgate opens, the veil thins. Only those who bear the token may pass.”
Harlow’s stare hardened. “The token gave them entry. Someone used it to open the gate, then left it behind. The victim must have been a gatekeeper who failed.”
A sudden clang echoed from deeper within the tunnel, the sound of metal on metal, a door grinding open somewhere beyond. The violet light flickered one last time, then vanished, leaving only the dull hum of the tunnel’s ventilation.
Harlow stood, the compass now still, its needle pointing straight ahead as if waiting . She turned to Eva, the satchel now a weight of possibilities.
“Let’s follow the needle,” she said, voice low . “There’s something else here.”
Eva smiled, the round glasses catching the dim light. “The market moves, but the rift doesn’t. We’ll find it.”
The two women moved forward, their steps echoing , the tunnel swallowing their silhouettes as they slipped deeper into the darkness, the compass clutched in Harlow’s hand, its brass casing warm against her palm, the faint glow of the violet light now a memory lingering in the stone.