Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTZ440E7BKN5F90KRX0TQH2

The rain slicked the pavement into a mosaic of broken reflections as Detective Harlow Quinn descended the crumbling steps into the abandoned Tube station. Her footsteps echoed against the tiled walls, each sound swallowed by the vast darkness beyond the emergency lighting. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic and wrong. DCI Wilkinson stood near the platform edge, his face illuminated by the harsh beam of a torch. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses fogged from the humidity. "Evening, Quinn." Harlow nodded, her eyes already scanning the scene. "What have we got?" "Jane Doe. Early thirties, no ID. Transit workers found her during their routine checks of the sealed stations." Wilkinson gestured toward the figure on the tracks. "Looks straightforward. Trespasser, probably drunk, fell onto the rails." Harlow approached the body, her movements precise. The victim lay on her back, arms outstretched as if embracing the darkness. Her clothes were expensive—a tailored coat, designer jeans—but torn in places, revealing pale skin beneath. No visible wounds, no signs of a struggle. No blood. "Too clean," Harlow murmured, crouching beside the remains. Her leather watch caught the light as she reached into her coat pocket for a pair of latex gloves. "Pardon?" "If she'd fallen, there'd be more damage. Scrapes, bruises, something." Harlow gently lifted the victim's hand. The nails were immaculate, dirt-free despite lying on the grimy tracks. "And these tracks haven't seen a train in fifteen years. The rails are rusted solid. No risk of electrocution." Wilkinson shone his torch at the rails. "Maybe she came down here to take her own life. Found a nice quiet spot." Harlow's gaze drifted upward, to the arched ceiling of the station. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing like a clock counting down. She noticed something glinting near the victim's feet and reached for it. A small brass compass, its casing etched with intricate symbols, green with age. The needle spun lazily, never settling in one direction. "Weird place to carry a compass," Wilkinson noted. "Especially underground." Harlow closed her fingers around it, the metal cold against her skin. "Not if you're looking for something." Footsteps echoed from the tunnel entrance. Harlow looked up to see a woman with curly red hair and round glasses approaching cautiously, a worn leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She stopped when she saw the police tape. "Detective Quinn? Eva Kowalski. You called me?" Harlow stood, slipping the compass into her pocket. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Kowalski. I understand you specialize in... unusual artifacts." Eva's eyes darted to the body, then quickly away. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, a nervous habit. "I work in the British Museum's restricted archives. Ancient artifacts, yes. But I'm not sure how I can help with a police investigation." Wilkinson stepped forward. "The detective seems to think this is more than a simple accident." Harlow ignored him, focusing on Eva. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" She pulled the compass from her pocket and held it out. Eva's eyes widened as she reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly. "Where did you get this?" "It was with the victim." Eva turned the compass over in her hands, examining the etchings. "This is a Veil Compass. It points to supernatural rifts or portals. They're not common—in fact, they're supposed to be impossible to find outside of certain markets." She looked up, her green eyes serious. "This was crafted by a Shade artisan." Wilkinson scoffed. "Supernatural rifts? Shade artisans? What are you talking about?" Harlow's attention remained fixed on Eva. "The Veil Market?" Eva's grip tightened on the compass. "You know about it?" "I've heard rumors. An underground market that moves locations every full moon. Sells things that shouldn't exist." Harlow's voice dropped. "Three years ago, my partner DS Morris was investigating something similar before he died." "Morris..." Eva's eyes flickered with recognition. "I remember that case. Everyone said it was a heart attack, but the autopsy was inconclusive." Harlow knelt beside the body again, her movements methodical. "Wilkinson, look at her eyes." The DCI bent down, shining his torch on the victim's face. "What am I looking for?" "They're completely black. No pupil, no iris, just solid black." Wilkinson adjusted his glasses. "That's impossible. Must be a trick of the light." "Touch them," Harlow said flatly. Wilkinson recoiled. "I'm not touching a corpse's eyes!" Harlow gently pressed her gloved finger against the victim's eyelid. The skin was cold, unnaturally so, almost like stone. "They're not human anymore. Whatever she was, she became something else down here." Eva stepped closer, her curiosity overcoming her fear. "The Veil Compass... if she had this, she was either looking for a portal or trying to escape from one." She paused, tucking her hair behind her ear again. "The Market moves locations, but it always has an entrance somewhere in the abandoned tunnels beneath Camden." Harlow stood, her sharp jaw set in determination. "That's where we need to go." Wilkinson shook his head. "We can't just go chasing fairy tales based on a compass and some black eyes. There's a rational explanation for all of this." "Is there?" Harlow gestured around the abandoned station. "Then explain why there's no dirt under her nails, no torn clothing from a fall, no signs of how she got down here. Explain why her body temperature is dropping faster than normal, and why her skin is turning this peculiar shade of grey." Wilkinson fell silent, his torch beam trembling slightly as it illuminated the victim's face, which was indeed beginning to take on an ashen hue. Eva held up the compass. "If you're serious about going to the Market, you'll need a bone token to enter. They won't let just anyone in, especially not police." Harlow's eyes met Eva's. "Can you get one?" "I know people who might help. But Quinn, whatever happened to this woman, it's connected to things most people don't want to acknowledge exist. Things that got your partner killed." Harlow's expression didn't change, but her hand instinctively touched the worn leather watch on her left wrist—a gift from Morris on his last birthday. "That's exactly why I need to find out the truth." In the distance, the sound of dripping water continued, steady and persistent, like a heartbeat counting down to something none of them yet understood.