Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYD4TGAKH91CB2NAVP2WKS

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the caution tape strung across the tunnel entrance. Damp concrete sweated under the glare of portable halogen lights. The air tasted of copper and old ozone, a sharp contrast to the usual stale urine and rust of the London Underground. This abandoned Tube station beneath Camden held secrets the Metropolitan Police database did not catalog. Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist. The hands ticked past midnight. DS Evans stood near the center of the platform, hands deep in the pockets of his high-visibility jacket. He kicked at a patch of moss growing on the tiles. Green vegetation had no business thriving this deep underground without sunlight. "Body's over by the ticket booth," Evans said. "Coroner's still poking around. Says cause of death is inconclusive. No marks, no blood." Quinn moved past him. Her boots clicked against the wet floor. The sound echoed too far, as if the tunnel stretched longer than physical geometry allowed. She stopped beside the corpse. A man in a tattered suit lay on his back. His eyes stared at the curved ceiling, pupils dilated wide enough to swallow the iris. "Identity?" "Nothing in the wallets. Cards are blank. Plastic strips with no numbers." Evans shifted his weight. "Looks like a drugging. Maybe a heart attack brought on by stress." Quinn crouched. She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her belt and snapped them onto her wrists. The sharp jawline of her face tightened as she leaned closer to the dead man's chest. His suit jacket was open. Inside the breast pocket, a brass object glinted under the halogen strip. She reached out. Her fingers hovered over the item before grasping it. The metal felt cold, leaching heat from her skin. She lifted the Veil Compass into the light. Verdigris stained the casing where the brass had oxidized. Sigils etched into the face pulsed with a faint, rhythmic luminescence that matched the beat of her own pulse. "Ever seen one of these?" Quinn asked. Evans leaned in. He squinted through the glare. "Looks like an antique. Pawn shop junk?" "Shade artisan work. Found in the restricted archives files." Quinn turned the compass over. The needle spun wildly, refusing to settle on North. It jerked toward the tunnel wall, then snapped back to the body. "This isn't junk. It points to rifts. Portals." "Portals." Evans straightened up. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're buying into the occult rumors now, Quinn? After Morris?" Quinn froze. The mention of her lost partner landed like a physical blow. She tucked the compass into an evidence bag. The plastic crinkled in the silence. "Morris died because we ignored the evidence in front of us," Quinn said. "This man didn't die of a heart attack. Look at the tiles beneath him." Evans looked down. The moss he had kicked earlier grew in a perfect circle around the body. The green shoots avoided the suit fabric but thrived on the concrete inches away. "Mold spores," Evans said. "Common in damp places." "Mold doesn't grow in rings unless something radiates from the center." Quinn stood. She walked to the tunnel wall where the compass needle had pointed. A section of the tiled surface appeared normal until she ran her gloved hand over it. The grout felt warm. Vibrations hummed against her palm. "The Market moves every full moon. Tonight is the full moon." "The Veil Market?" Evans laughed. A short, sharp sound that died quickly in the damp air. "That's a urban legend. Truckers talk about it on the forums. You think a black market for magic spells killed this guy?" "I think he was selling something he couldn't control." Quinn returned to the body. She lifted the man's left hand. The skin on his fingertips was blackened, as if burned by extreme cold. "No entry requirement visible. No bone token on the chain." "Maybe he lost it." "Nobody enters without a token. The barrier rejects them." Quinn tapped the compass against her palm. The needle settled, pointing directly at the dead man's chest. "The energy signature originates from inside him. Not external." Evans frowned. He crouched beside her. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it into the man's mouth. "Teeth are intact. No capsules." "Check the lining of the jacket." Quinn stepped back. She watched the halogen lights flicker. The voltage in the station fluctuated without pattern. "He swallowed it. Or it was planted." Evans reached into the jacket. He felt along the inner seam. His fingers stopped at the shoulder. He pulled a small pouch free. It was made of leather, stitched with thread that looked like human hair. He opened it. Dust spilled onto the floor. Grey ash mixed with tiny bone fragments. "Creepy," Evans said. "Could be anything. Ground-up pills for all we know." "Bone token residue." Quinn watched the ash settle. It didn't scatter in the draft. The particles clumped together, forming a small pile that defied gravity. "He used the token to enter. Then someone took it back. Or he consumed it to hide the evidence." "Consumed a bone token?" Evans stood. He wiped his hands on his trousers. "That's insane. You're building a fantasy novel instead of a case file." "I'm building a case file based on physics." Quinn pointed to the ash. "That mass shouldn't hold together. Gravity isn't working right here. The rift is open. Someone left it open." She walked toward the tunnel darkness beyond the platform edge. The shadows pooled thicker there, swallowing the light from the lamps. The compass needle swung violently, straining against the casing. "Where are you going?" Evans called out. "Protocol says we wait for SOCO." "Protocol assumes a standard crime scene." Quinn stopped at the edge of the light. The darkness pressed against her face. Cold air blew from the tunnel, carrying the scent of ozone and burnt sugar. "This scene changes in twenty minutes. The Market moves. If the rift closes, we lose the trail." "You can't go in there alone." Evans moved toward her. He reached for his radio. "I'm calling it in. We need backup." "Backup takes twenty minutes. The Market takes less." Quinn checked her watch. The leather strap creaked. "You stay here. Secure the body. Don't let anyone touch the ash." "Quinn." Evans's voice hardened. "Don't do this. You go down that tunnel, you're off the books. No support. No warrant." Quinn turned. The sharp line of her jaw set firm. She held up the evidence bag. The compass needle vibrated against the plastic. "I lost Morris because I waited for backup," Quinn said. "I'm not making that mistake again." She stepped into the tunnel. The halogen lights behind her flickered and died one by one, leaving only the glow of the compass face to light her path. The darkness wrapped around her shoulders. The air grew colder. The sound of Evans shouting her name faded, replaced by the low hum of the rift ahead. Quinn moved forward. Her boots found purchase on the slick tracks. The compass needle locked onto a point fifty yards ahead. A shimmer distorted the air, like heat haze on a summer road. Behind the distortion, shapes moved. Stalls. Figures. Lights that burned without fuel. She stopped. The shimmer pulsed. A figure stepped out from the distortion. Tall. Wearing a coat made of patches that shifted color when she blinked. The figure held a lantern that emitted no light, yet illuminated the space around it. Quinn gripped the evidence bag. Her thumb brushed the worn leather of her watch. She waited. The figure raised the lantern. The light revealed a face without features. Smooth skin where eyes and mouth should be. The figure pointed at the compass in her hand. A sound echoed in her head, not through her ears. A voice like grinding stone. *Token.* Quinn held up the bag with the ash. The figure shook its head. The lantern swung. The light swept over her body, lingering on the badge clipped to her belt. *Outsider.* The figure lowered the lantern. The darkness rushed back in. The shimmer began to fade. The Market was closing. Quinn stepped forward. She reached out toward the distortion. Her fingers brushed the cold surface of the rift. It felt like touching ice. The compass needle spun faster. The brass casing grew hot against her palm. Smoke rose from the evidence bag. The plastic began to melt. Quinn dropped the bag. It hit the tracks with a sizzle. The ash scattered. The wind picked up. Debris swirled around her ankles. Papers. Coins. Bones. The figure vanished into the haze. The rift narrowed. Quinn stood alone in the tunnel. The halogen lights behind her flickered back on. Evans's voice returned, distant but urgent. She looked at the melted plastic on the tracks. The compass lay beside it. The needle still pointed forward, into the closing gap. The wall behind the rift remained solid brick. No door. No passage. Quinn picked up the compass. The verdigris had spread. The sigils were darker now. She turned back toward the platform. Evans ran toward her, flashlight beam cutting through the dust. "Quinn!" Evans skidded to a halt. He looked at the tracks. He looked at the wall. "Where did it go? I saw lights." "It moved." Quinn pocketed the compass. The metal burned through her jacket. "The body wasn't the target. He was the key." "A key?" Evans shone his light on the melted plastic. "For what?" Quinn looked at her watch. The hands had stopped. The tick ceased. She tapped the glass. The second hand remained frozen on the twelve. "For whatever comes next," Quinn said.