Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXN35JD3HKNY5NYKRHAGD6

The air hung thick with the metallic reek of blood, a coppery tang that clawed at the back of Harlow's throat. She stepped over the yellow police tape, the crisp crinkle of plastic a jarring sound in the cavernous silence of the abandoned Tube station. Water dripped somewhere in the gloom, a rhythmic plink-plunk that echoed off the curved tunnel walls. A faded map, still clinging to a grimy pillar, showed lines long decommissioned, a phantom network of forgotten routes. The Veil Market, some bobby had called it. She’d heard whispers of a place like this, a myth amongst the rank and file, a haven for the weird and unsavoury. Now it was a crime scene. Harlow’s gaze swept across the platform. The usual trappings of a forensic investigation were already in place: glowing chemical lights illuminating arcs of blood, evidence markers dotting the concrete like morbid confetti, the hushed murmur of officers going about their grim work. But something was off. The light. It was dim, an oppressive, shadowy half-light that even the powerful lamps struggled to penetrate. Dust motes danced in the beams, but not the floating, lazy kind. These particles seemed to writhe, to swirl with an unseen current, creating an unsettling visual static. A figure detached itself from a cluster of uniforms, a stocky man with a neatly trimmed beard and an air of perpetual annoyance. Detective Inspector Harding. He gestured towards a huddle of crime scene investigators near a defunct turnstile. “Quinn. Took your sweet time getting here.” Harlow clocked his watch, a cheap digital affair. “Traffic. And I didn’t realise the job came with a chauffeur service.” She ran a hand over her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Her brown eyes narrowed, taking in the scene. A body lay slumped against the grimy ticket booth, a man, or what remained of one. The bloodied outline on the concrete was disturbingly artistic. “Lovely, isn’t it?” Harding grimaced. “Another one for the weird file. Third in as many weeks. You got any bright ideas, or are we just collecting cadavers for the supernaturals now?” Harlow ignored the jab. She moved closer, her gaze fixed on the body. A faint metallic aroma, separate from the blood, hung in the air. A sharp tang, like ozone, or a storm about to break. It prickled her nose, raised the hairs on her arms. “Victim identification?” she asked, her voice low. Harding consulted a small notepad. “Gary Henderson. Forty-two. Unemployed. Small-time drug dealer, apparently. Had a rap sheet longer than my arm. Looks like a turf war gone wrong.” “Turf war?” Harlow knelt, carefully avoiding a splatter of congealed blood. The body was contorted, limbs at unnatural angles. The man’s eyes were wide, staring at the discoloured ceiling. But it wasn’t the expression of surprise that caught her attention. It was the colour. A faint, ethereal glow seemed to emanate from his irises, a pale green light that pulsed faintly. “What else would it be?” Harding scoffed. “Look at him. Slumped like a sack of spuds. Stab wounds, blunt force trauma. Textbook. Probably crossed the wrong bloke, ended up here.” Harlow reached for her penlight, shining it on the victim’s chest. A series of deep lacerations marred his torso, but they weren't typical knife wounds. The edges were uneven, ragged, as if something had torn through flesh rather than sliced. And beneath the dried blood, a peculiar pattern emerged, faint but distinct. A series of interlocking circles and lines, almost like a brand. “This isn’t a knife,” she stated, more to herself than to Harding. “Looks like a knife to me,” Harding mumbled, peering over her shoulder. “Or a very angry ice pick. Point is, it’s a murder. We found a shiv nearby, covered in his blood. Open and shut.” “A shiv?” Harlow stood, her keen eyes scanning the immediate area. “Where?” Harding pointed to an evidence marker next to a discarded crisp packet. A crude, make-shift blade lay there, glinting dully under the forensic lights. It was wrapped in cloth, the tip stained dark. Harlow walked over, a frown creasing her brow. She studied the shiv for a long moment, then looked back at the wounds on Henderson's chest. The patterns, the ragged edges – they didn’t match. Not even close. The shiv was too narrow, too precise to inflict such wide, tearing injuries. “This shiv,” she began, turning to face Harding, her voice gaining an edge. “It would make neat, thin cuts. These…these are tears. Like he was mauled.” Harding shrugged. “Maybe he was. Some street brawl. They got creative.” “Creative, or something else entirely.” Harlow’s gaze drifted to the walls of the platform, noting the graffiti. Not the typical spray-painted tags, but intricate symbols, etched into the grime, some almost glowing faintly under the forensic lights. They were everywhere, interlocking patterns, swirling lines, symbols that felt ancient, foreign. Her partner had seen things like this before, in the last days. She could feel the hairs on her neck prickle. She knelt again, closer to the victim, ignoring Harding’s exasperated sigh. The smell of ozone was stronger here, almost stinging her nostrils. She noticed, for the first time, a peculiar residue on the concrete beneath the body – a fine, shimmering dust, almost invisible to the naked eye. It looked like crushed moonlight. Harlow meticulously examined the man’s hands. His fingers were splayed, but not in the rigor mortis grip of someone fighting for their life. They looked… relaxed. Too relaxed. And on his left palm, a faint, circular indentation. Like he had been holding something. “He was holding something,” she murmured, tracing the outline with a gloved finger. “Something round. And then it was taken.” Harding snorted. “A mobile phone, probably. Thieves nicked it. Comes with the territory down here.” “A mobile phone wouldn’t leave this kind of imprint,” Harlow countered, shaking her head. “This is specific. A worn impression. Like a compass.” She cast her eyes around the platform again, moving with a military precision that always irked Harding. Her gaze landed on a faint trail, barely perceptible, leading from the body towards the curved tunnel entrance. Not blood, but the same shimmering dust she'd seen beneath the victim. A whisper of a trail, almost like someone had dragged something heavy, something that shed moonlight. “Did anyone check down here?” she asked, pointing towards the tunnel. Harding scoffed. “What for? The perp probably ran off into the night. Unless you think he took the Tube. Pretty sure they don’t run anymore.” “I think he went this way,” Harlow insisted, her voice quiet but firm. “And whatever he held, whatever left that mark on Henderson’s hand, it went with him.” She paused, her jaw sharp, a flicker of understanding in her brown eyes. “And it wasn't a phone. It was heavier. Something metallic. Something… attuned.” The dust trail grew clearer as she followed it, the faint shimmer more pronounced against the grime of the tunnel floor. It led away from the platform, deeper into the echoing darkness. The ozone smell grew stronger, filling the air, a scent that now brought with it a memory of an old case, of things she hadn't understood. The trail abruptly stopped near a crumbling brick wall, where the tunnel had clearly been blocked off. But here, the shimmering dust was concentrated, thick and almost glowing. Not a continuous trail anymore, but a concentrated patch, as if something had dissolved there, or reappeared. Harlow’s mind raced. The unusual wounds, the brand, the glowing dust, the missing object. The Veil Market. Her partner. It all clicked into place, a sudden, horrifying clarity. This wasn't a turf war. This was something else. Something supernatural. She turned back towards Harding, a cold certainty settling in her gut. “This isn’t a shiv murder,” she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. “And that isn’t just dust.” Her gaze swept across the ghostly light and strange etchings. “This isn’t a normal crime scene at all.”