Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXTS5AMQKA0TR440DY5SR3

The air in the abandoned station tasted of iron and damp paper. Harlow Quinn adjusted the strap of her utility belt, the leather worn smooth by eighteen years on the force. Her boots crunched on the loose gravel that had accumulated over decades of neglect. To anyone else, this gloomy Tube platform beneath Camden was just another vacancy on the Council's list, a reminder of the city’s forgotten infrastructure. To Quinn, it was home. And tonight, it was a crime scene. The entrance hatch in the tiled ceiling had been pried open, leaving a jagged ring of twisted metal. Light spilled down, illuminating a cluster of crates and velvet ropes in the center of the main track. A uniformed officer, new and green around the gills, stood guard outside the perimeter, his face pale against the gloom. "Detective." Eva Kowalski pushed herself off a rusted support pillar, her knees popping. She carried the weight of a small library on her back, the leather satchel thumping rhythmically with each step. Her red curls were escaping the confines of her round glasses, tickling her freckled cheeks. She was checking her fingernails for ink stains, a nervous tic she tried to suppress. "I told you we shouldn't come without backup," Eva said, her voice low. "They’d take too long to dig up a warrant for a stakeout in an abandoned Tube station. We cut through the red tape with the Bone Token. It bought us access," Quinn replied, her gaze fixed on the center of the room. A body lay sprawled across a pallet of crates. Clothing—expensive, tailored wool—was torn, but the damage looked staged rather than fought over. "The vic?" Eva asked, sidling up. "Unknown. Probably someone who shouldn't have wandered into the Veil Market tonight. The fence location shifts with the tide, but this looks like a holdover from the last cycle." Quinn stepped over a discarded newspaper dated three years prior, the headlines describing a string of unsolved art thefts. She lowered herself into a crouch beside the body. The victim was a man, mid-forties, handsomely ruined. His eyes were wide, staring up at the peeling tin ceiling, reflecting the flickering light of a handheld lantern held by another officer. "Call it in," Quinn told the younger officer. "Run a digitization on the body. But keep the lights low for now." "Detective, look at this," the officer stammered, his voice trembling. "There’s no blood on the floor, sir. None at all. It’s like he just evaporated." Quinn ignored him. She reached out with a gloved hand and touched the man’s neck. The skin was warm. Radiating heat. "Eva, grab that medical kit from the satchel. If this is a robbery, the guy in the velvet jacket is terrible with knives. The wound is precise. A lobotomy split, straight down the spine." Eva rummaged in her bag, the clinking of glass vials cutting through the silence. She pulled out a small glass vial and uncorked it, wafting the scent of lavender and dried sage under the man’s nose. "He’s not breathing," Eva noted, her eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "And his body temperature is elevated. Too high. He’s been dead for maybe an hour, but he feels like he’s on a radiator." "Paradox," Eva whispered, stepping closer. She pointed a shaking finger at the man’s chest. "Look at the shadows. They’re not casting true. That shadow should be on the crate. It’s hovering." Quinn looked. The angle of the lantern cast the shadow of the body across the metal floor, but the top half of the shadow detached itself and floated above the chest. "Fluorescent ghouls," Quinn muttered, standing up. "Or alchemical fire retardant." She circled the body, boots clicking against the concrete. She checked the man’s pockets. Empty. His belt was unbuckled, and his jacket was tossed aside. It was staged to look like a mugging gone wrong, or a lover's quarrel. "Sheer manicured perfection," Quinn said, poking at the open wound. "If he died instantly, the contusions on his face should match the landing, but they don't. He looks like he was posed." Eva shuddered, her hand going to the satchel strap. "He was forced to look at us. At the compass." Quinn stopped. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the brass artifact. The Veil Compass sat heavy in her palm, the verdigris flaking off onto her gloves. She didn't need the bone token anymore; the item pulsed in response to the dead man's residual energy. "The needle is erratic," Eva observed. "The compass points to rifts," Quinn said. She spun the dial. The needle spun in a frenzy, scratching against the glass face. Then, it snapped to the right. Straight at the rusted wall of the tunnel, where a heavy steel shutter was welded shut. "You think he’s here?" the rookie asked, stepping closer. "The victim was a Shade artisan. Someone powerful," Eva said. "They don't sell what's on the black market unless they're desperate, or selling something far worse. He didn't come here to buy poisons. He came here to sell a secret." "Or hide one," Quinn countered. She walked toward the shutter. The needle drew her forward. It pressed against her finger, demanding entrance. "Harlow, wait. The barrier on that door is sealed with a blood rune. One wrong step and the door closes. It doesn't open for outsiders." Quinn didn't listen. She looked back at the body. The man’s eyes had cleared slightly, the frantic glaze fading. He wasn't staring up at the ceiling anymore. He was looking directly at the spot where the needle had stopped. At the wall. "He didn't come here," Quinn said softly. "He was brought here." "Why?" Eva asked, the leather of her satchel squeaking as she stepped forward to block the path. "Why the cruelty? Why leave him here?" "He was dumped," Quinn replied, staring at the shutter. "And the person who dumped him knows the door doesn't open from the outside unless you have a key. Or unless you know the code. And only the clique knows the code to the old Camden sector." Eva gasped, covering her mouth. "The clique. The ones you've been investigating." "The ones who killed Morris," Quinn corrected. She looked at the compass. The needle wasn't pointing at the door anymore. It was pointing at Eva. The blood froze in Quinn's veins. She stared at the brass casing, the green patina blurring under her gaze. The needle hadn't twitched toward Eva. It had been pointing at Eva the whole time. "Harlow, what are you doing?" Eva asked, stepping back, her hand drifting toward the pocket of her slacks. "Don't move, Eva." "I'm not doing anything. I'm a researcher. I'm here to help." "You're a researcher," Quinn repeated, her voice flat. "And your heart rate just spiked. You took a bone token three months ago to get into the archives. You probably took one today, too. But you didn't use it at the door. You walked through the shadows." The shutter groaned, a hydraulic hiss that hadn't been heard in decades. The rusted metal peeled back, revealing a dark void beyond. The smell of rot and sulfur wafted out, stronger than anything inside the platform. A shadow detached itself from the wall of the void and drifted toward Quinn. Eva stepped forward, pulling a small silver dagger from her sleeve. "I didn't do anything to him, Quinn! I just told you what I saw!" "He was afraid of you," Quinn said, her hand tightening around the compass until her knuckles turned white. "That's why the shadow detached itself. It doesn't like the competition." The rookie officer dropped his lantern. It shattered, sending sparks flying that ignited the dry newspaper on the floor. The fire spread quickly, a hungry yellow wave eating through the propaganda of the past. Eva looked at the fire, then at the dark opening behind Quinn, then finally at the detective. "I didn't bring him here," Eva screamed, tears welling in her eyes. "I was meeting you here!" "The clock is ticking," Quinn said, watching the shadow grow. "And the Market is about to make a move. Full moon's rising. And if we don't get out of here before the tunnel collapses, we're going down with the ship."