Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXVGDEHF66HTYE9V4VEXP4

Harlow Quinn stepped off the maintenance ladder and onto the cracked tiles of the abandoned Camden Tube station. Dust motes danced in the beam of her torch, illuminating graffiti that shifted when viewed from the corner of her eye. The air tasted of copper and ozone, thick enough to coat the back of her throat. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the familiar weight grounding her against the unnatural chill seeping from the tunnel walls. This was the Veil Market, a place that shouldn't exist according to any Metropolitan Police database. DS Miller waited near the perimeter tape, his face pale under the harsh glow of portable floodlights. He kicked at a loose cable on the ground. "Place gives me the willies, Guv." Harlow ignored the comment and ducked under the tape. Her boots crunched on broken glass and scattered papers. A body lay sprawled near the old ticket barriers, surrounded by chalk outlines that shimmered with a faint, iridescent powder. "Victim identified?" "John Doe. No wallet, no phone. Just this." Miller held up an evidence bag containing a small brass compass. The casing bore a patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with protective sigils that hurt to look at directly. Harlow took the bag. The needle inside twitched, vibrating against the glass. She turned the compass over in her gloved hand. The metal felt warm, pulsing with a rhythm that matched her own heartbeat. "Suicide," Miller stated. "Overdose likely. No signs of struggle. Market folk are weird, you know how it is." "Suicide doesn't explain the burn marks on the floor." Harlow crouched beside the body. The chalk outlines weren't standard police markings. They formed a complex geometric pattern around the deceased's head. She ran a finger near the edge of the design without touching it. The air hummed. "Ritual stuff. Maybe he botched it." Miller shrugged. "Open and shut. We bag him, we leave. I don't like standing down here longer than we have to." Harlow stood and wiped her hand on her trousers. She pulled the Veil Compass from the evidence bag, ignoring Miller's protest. The moment the brass casing touched her skin, the needle spun wildly before locking onto a specific point in the tunnel darkness. "Someone moved the body." "CSI says he fell right there." "CSI doesn't know how this market works." Harlow pointed the compass toward the tunnel ceiling. The needle remained fixed on the dark void above the tracks. "This thing points to rifts. Portals. If he died here, the energy would be residual. Static." She walked toward the body again, holding the compass low. The needle swung away from the ceiling and pointed directly at the victim's chest. "See that?" "See what?" "The needle. It's not pointing at a rift. It's pointing at him." Harlow knelt beside the corpse again. She lifted the victim's left hand. The skin was cold, waxy. Underneath the fingernails, dark residue clung to the cuticles. "He was holding something when he died. Something magical." "Drugs." "Focus, Miller." Harlow snapped the words out. She examined the chalk lines again. The geometry was imperfect. One line broke near the victim's shoulder. "This circle was interrupted. Someone stepped through it while he was still alive." Miller crossed his arms. "You think someone pushed him into a portal?" "I think he was murdered, and the killer tried to hide the body using the market's own rules." Harlow stood and walked the perimeter of the chalk design. Her shadow stretched long across the tiles, distorting against the curved tunnel walls. "The Veil Market moves every full moon. Tonight is the night. If the body stays here when the market shifts, it gets lost in the ether. No evidence, no crime scene." "That's a lot of theory for a dead junkie." Harlow stopped at the break in the chalk line. She pulled a magnifying glass from her pocket and inspected the tile. A faint scuff mark marred the surface, leading away from the body toward the maintenance shaft. "Look at the dust." She gestured to the floor. "It's undisturbed everywhere except this path. Someone dragged him here after he died. The blood pool is wrong. It's too uniform. It was poured." Miller stepped closer, shining his torch on the dark stain. The light revealed a slight variation in viscosity near the edges. "Staged," Miller admitted. "Staged to look like a ritual gone wrong." Harlow tucked the compass into her jacket pocket. The brass warmed against her ribs. "The killer wanted us to think this was supernatural so we'd walk away. They counted on us being out of our depth." "So who moves a body in a supernatural black market without getting seen?" "Someone who knows the schedule." Harlow checked her watch. The hands ticked louder than usual. "Someone who knew the market would vanish in two hours." She walked toward the maintenance shaft where the scuff marks led. The darkness beyond the floodlights seemed to press inward, heavy and suffocating. Her partner Morris had died three years ago under similar circumstances. No body, no explanation, just a gap in the record books she couldn't fill. This felt the same. The silence of the tunnel pressed against her eardrums. "Quinn, we need backup." Miller's voice sounded distant. "This is beyond us." "We don't have time for backup." Harlow drew her service weapon. The metal felt cold compared to the compass. "The killer is still here. They couldn't have left without triggering the sensors at the entrance." "We swept the entrance. No one left." "Then they are hiding." Harlow moved toward the shaft. The compass in her pocket vibrated harder, burning against her side. She stopped and pulled it out. The needle spun faster, blurring into a silver disc. It pointed straight down the shaft. "Down there?" Miller raised his torch. The beam cut through the dust but failed to penetrate the deeper darkness. "Down there." "That leads to the old Victorian sewers. It's a maze." "It leads to where he was killed." Harlow holstered the weapon and drew a flashlight from her belt. She clicked it on. The beam revealed fresh footprints in the grime. Size ten, heavy tread. Military grade. "Boots," Miller noted. "Professional." Harlow stepped onto the first rung of the ladder leading down. The iron groaned under her weight. She paused and looked back at Miller. "You stay here. Secure the scene. If the market shifts, I need you to hold the perimeter." "You're going down alone?" "I work better alone." Harlow descended into the dark. The air grew colder with every rung. The smell of ozone faded, replaced by the stench of stagnant water and decay. The compass vibrated so hard her hand shook. She reached the bottom and stepped onto the wet concrete of the sewer tunnel. Water lapped at her boots. The beam of her torch caught something glinting on the wall ahead. A symbol, painted in the same iridescent powder as the chalk circle. It matched the sigils on the compass face. She moved closer, keeping her back to the wall. The water rippled without wind. Something moved in the periphery of the light. "Show yourself." Silence answered. The compass needle locked onto the symbol on the wall. It wasn't just a mark. It was a door. The air in front of the symbol shimmered like heat haze. Harlow reached out, her fingers inches from the distortion. The heat radiating from the rift singed her skin. A voice echoed from the darkness behind her. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you." Harlow spun, weapon raised. A figure stood in the shadows, obscured by the gloom. The compass needle swung wildly, pointing at the stranger. "Police. Step into the light." The figure laughed, a dry, rasping sound. They stepped forward, revealing a worn leather satchel slung over their shoulder. Curly red hair caught the edge of the torchlight. Green eyes glinted behind round glasses. "Detective Quinn. You're out of your depth." "Eva Kowalski." Harlow kept the gun steady. "You're supposed to be at the museum." "And you're supposed to be dead." Eva tucked a curl of hair behind her left ear. Her hand trembled. "That compass isn't a toy. It doesn't point to rifts. It points to hunters." Harlow glanced at the compass. The needle stopped spinning. It pointed directly at Harlow's own chest.