AI Rain lashed against the windows of Detective Harlow Quinn’s unmarked sedan, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the already tense silence . She pulled the collar of her trench coat tighter, the damp wool a familiar , unwanted companion. The taxi driver, a nervous man with sweat beading on his upper lip despite the chill , eased the car down a narrow, cobbled lane. Graffiti, abstract and unsettling, bloomed across the brickwork like cancerous growths.
“You sure about this, guv’nor?” the driver fumbled, his eyes darting nervously towards the swirling mist ahead. “Ain’t nobody goes down here. Not unless they got somethin’ to hide.”
Harlow offered a curt nod, her eyes fixed on the disappearing streetlamps. “Just get me there.”
The lane ended abruptly, giving way to a crumbling stone archway choked with ivy. Beyond it, squatting like a bruised toad, was a building that defied easy description. It was a hulking, angular structure , half-modernist concrete, half-Victorian brick, with an assortment of mismatched windows that stared out like vacant eyes. A single, flickering bulb cast a sickly yellow glow on the slick, uneven cobblestones of a derelict courtyard. Police tape, a garish yellow sentinel , crisscrossed the main entrance.
She paid the driver, the crisp banknotes a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. Stepping out, the air hit her – a potent cocktail of damp earth, something metallic, and a faint, cloying sweetness that tickled the back of her throat. It was an unsettling perfume, not quite natural.
Uniformed officers milled about, their breath pluming in the cold air. They moved with a practiced, if somewhat hesitant, gait. A tall, robust sergeant with a weathered face approached, his expression a mixture of duty and unease.
“Detective Quinn,” he acknowledged, tipping his cap . “Glad you could make it. Nasty one.”
“What have we got?” Harlow’s voice was a low growl, cutting through the patter of rain. Her military bearing kept her movements precise, her gaze sharp. Her worn leather watch, a constant companion, told her it was just past midnight.
“Victim’s name is Alistair Finch. Found him in what looks like a… workshop, I suppose you’d call it. Inside.” The sergeant gestured towards the building. “Forensics are already in there. We’ve secured the perimeter.”
“Workshop?” Harlow raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow . “This place looks abandoned.”
“That’s the odd thing, Detective. Power’s on. Tools everywhere. And this Finch fellow… well, you’ll see.”
She ducked under the tape, the plastic clinging to her coat for a moment before snapping free. The interior was a jarring contrast to the dereliction outside. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile, unforgiving glare on the scene. The air was thick with the metallic tang and that strange, sweet aroma, stronger now. Dust motes danced in the harsh beams of light.
The room was cavernous, a jumble of benches, shelves laden with strange implements, and equipment that looked more like an alchemist’s laboratory than a carpenter’s shop. Glass vials, some filled with luridly coloured liquids, others empty and askew, littered a large workbench. Twisted metal, gears, and intricate clockwork mechanisms lay in various states of assembly. It was a controlled chaos, a place of intense, focused creation.
And in the centre of it all, sprawled on the grimy floor, was Alistair Finch.
He was an older man, skeletal, his skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, a mask of surprise frozen on his face. But it wasn’t the pallor of death that struck Harlow. It was the way he was positioned . He lay on his back, arms flung wide, as if embracing an unseen entity . His mouth was open in a silent scream, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. And around him… around him, the floor shimmered .
Not with blood. Not with any discernible liquid. It was a faint, iridescent sheen, like oil on water, but impossibly thin. It pulsed with a faint, internal light.
A young constable, his face pale, stood by the doorway. “We… we didn’t touch anything, Detective. Not after we found him.”
Harlow crouched beside the body, her eyes scanning every detail. The sharp jawline that was usually set in a determined line was now tinged with frustration. The evidence just wasn't adding up. There were no signs of a struggle. No visible wounds. The shimmering on the floor… it was deeply unnatural.
“Any witnesses?” she asked, her voice low, not taking her eyes off the pulsing sheen.
“No one, ma’am. Neighbor heard a… a thud. That’s what brought the patrol car. They arrived to find this.”
Suddenly, a familiar, slightly reedy voice sliced through the oppressive atmosphere. “Honestly, Harlow, you always pick the most dramatic crime scenes.”
Harlow’s head snapped up. Standing in the doorway, framed by the yellow tape, was Eva Kowalski. Her curly red hair was a bright splash of colour against the drab surroundings, and her round glasses perched on her nose. She clutched a worn leather satchel to her chest, its contents bulging.
“Eva,” Harlow said, a hint of something that might have been relief, or perhaps just exasperation, in her tone. “What are you doing here?”
Eva pushed her glasses up her nose, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with a habitual gesture. “Someone tipped me off. Said there was… unusual energy readings in this sector. Figured it might be worth investigating. Turns out, it was more than just energy readings.” She gestured towards the deceased. “Poor Mr. Finch. A collector, apparently.”
“Collector of what?” Harlow grunted, standing up. The faint sweetness in the air seemed to intensify whenever Eva spoke of the unusual.
“All sorts,” Eva replied, stepping further into the room, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged in such places. “Antiquities, oddities, things that don’t quite fit into the normal world. This place,” she swept a hand around the workshop, “is a testament to that.”
Harlow walked over to a workbench, picking up a small, brass object. It was a compass, but unlike any she had ever seen. The casing bore a distinct patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with intricate , protective sigils. The needle, instead of pointing north, quivered erratically, then settled on a direction that pointed directly at the shimmering patch on the floor.
“What is this?” Harlow held up the compass.
“Ah,” Eva’s eyes lit up behind her glasses, a spark of pure academic fascination igniting. “A Veil Compass. Quite rare. They’re attuned to… well, to tears in the fabric of reality. Supernatural rifts. Or portals, if you prefer.”
Harlow’s gaze drifted from the compass to the shimmering patch on the floor, then back to the victim’s outstretched arms. The pieces, fragmented and obscure, began to shift in her mind. The lack of struggle. The unnatural sheen. The victim’s serene, yet terrified, expression.
“This Finch… he didn’t just die, did he?” Harlow’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper .
Eva’s gaze followed Harlow’s. A slow understanding dawned on her face, mingled with a professional dread. “No,” she breathed. “I don’t think he did.”
Then, her eyes narrowed . She pointed to a series of faint scorch marks radiating outwards from the shimmering patch. “And he certainly didn’t fall. Look at the pattern of those marks, Harlow. They aren’t from an impact. They’re from… energy discharge. Concentrated. And that thud the neighbour heard?” Eva tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That wasn’t a body hitting the floor. That was… something collapsing. Something that was there, and then wasn’t.”
Harlow stared at the shimmering floor, the Veil Compass in her hand now pointing resolutely at the spot. The cloying sweetness in the air suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn't a murder scene, not in the way she understood it. Alistair Finch hadn’t been killed . He’d been… consumed. By whatever had been lurking just beyond the veil, drawn by something Finch had been working on, something the compass was now desperately trying to locate. She felt a cold dread creep up her spine, a familiar echo of the case that had cost her partner his life.