Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY9G5MSB4G6H86YJY5DQBQ

Detective Harlow Quinn ducked under the crime scene tape. The abandoned Tube station breathed cold air up from the tracks, a subterranean chill that clung to her wool coat. Her leather watch strap creaked as she checked the time. Three in the morning. The platform stretched into darkness, illuminated only by the harsh white of forensic lamps. She spotted the body immediately. Male, mid-thirties, sprawled across the yellowed tiles near the edge of the platform. His throat bore bruises in the shape of fingers. Open and shut strangulation, except the positioning was wrong. His legs dangled toward the tracks, but no scuff marks marred the tile near his heels. He hadn't kicked. Hadn't fought. "Detective Quinn." She turned. Eva Kowalski emerged from the shadows near the tunnel mouth, her curly red hair catching the lamplight like copper wire. She carried that worn leather satchel, stuffed until the straps strained. Her round glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them up with a finger already ink-stained. "You called this in?" "I found him." Eva tucked a curl behind her left ear. Her gaze dropped to the body, then skittered away. "I was researching down here. For the Museum." Quinn stepped closer to the corpse. The man's eyes stared at the curved ceiling tiles. His pockets were turned inside out, but a wallet remained in his back pocket, fat with cash. Robbery wasn't the motive. She crouched, her military bearing keeping her back straight even at this angle. The bruises on his throat were too symmetrical. Too perfect. "Strangulation." Eva hugged her satchel. "Look at his hands." Quinn checked. The man's fingernails were clean. No skin under them. No defensive wounds. But his palms bore strange burns, circular patterns etched into the flesh like brands. "Acid?" "Sigils." Eva's voice dropped. She stepped closer, her trainers squeaking on the tile. "Protective markings. Someone burned them into him while he was still alive. Or tried to." Quinn stood. Her leather watch caught the light. She scanned the platform. The forensic team had dusted for prints near the body, but the tiles further out remained untouched. She walked to the tunnel entrance. Cold air poured from the darkness, carrying the smell of rust and ozone. Something glinted on the ground. She crouched again. A small brass compass lay near the track bed, its casing green with verdigris. The face bore etched markings she didn't recognize—geometric patterns that seemed to shift when she blinked. The needle spun wildly, not north, not anywhere fixed. It pointed toward the tunnel wall. "Eva." Quinn didn't look up. "What is this?" Footsteps approached. Eva's breath caught. "A Veil Compass." She knelt beside Quinn, her knee nearly touching the track. "It points toward supernatural rifts. Portals." Quinn picked it up. The brass was ice-cold. The needle steadied, pointing directly at the tunnel wall where brick met tile. Solid stone. No door. "The victim had this?" "He was running from something." Eva tucked her hair back again. Her hands shook. "Or toward something. The compass leads to the Veil Market. It moves, Quinn. Every full moon. Tonight's location is this station." Quinn stood, pocketing the compass. She walked back to the body. The bruises on his throat weren't from human hands. The symmetry was too precise, the spacing too wide. She imagined invisible fingers closing around his neck while he clutched at his palms, burning his own flesh with protective sigils that failed. "Your partner," Eva said quietly. "DS Morris. He died three years ago. Unexplained circumstances." Quinn's jaw tightened. Her sharp jawline caught the lamplight. "Supernatural origins," Eva continued. "You don't understand yet what killed him. But you're starting to see, aren't you? The evidence that doesn't add up. The bruises that don't match human anatomy. The compass spinning toward brick walls." Quinn looked at the tunnel. The darkness seemed thicker now, breathing. She checked her watch. Three-fifteen. The Market had closed, or moved, or simply hidden itself behind the veil of perception that separated her world from whatever had crushed this man's throat. "File this as a homicide," Quinn said. Her voice carried the precision of her military bearing. "Unknown perpetrator. But mark the evidence as compromised. The bruising pattern suggests..." She paused. The compass in her pocket grew warm. "Anomalies." Eva nodded, clutching her satchel. "The Veil leaves traces. Even when it seals shut." Quinn turned toward the exit. She didn't look back at the body, but she felt the weight of the brass compass pulling her toward the wall where no door existed. DS Morris had died in a warehouse with similar bruises. She'd spent three years chasing shadows. Tonight, the shadows finally had a shape. She climbed the stairs toward the street, Eva following behind. The abandoned station swallowed the lamplight as they left, and somewhere in the dark, the compass needle spun again, pointing toward secrets that refused to stay buried.