Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPFA61AS3D92SRA1F45YEX

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the back of the throat like rust. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow police tape, her boots scuffing against the gritty platform. The air was thick with the hum of fluorescent lights, their sickly glow reflecting off the peeling posters still clinging to the walls—advertisements for long-forgotten plays and wartime propaganda, their edges curled like dying leaves. She adjusted the cuff of her leather watch, the strap worn smooth from years of use, and exhaled through her nose. Three years since Morris had vanished in a place just like this. Three years of files stamped *unsolved*, of superiors suggesting she take leave, of nights spent staring at case photos that made less sense the longer she looked. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows near the old ticket booth, where a pool of darkness seemed to resist the overhead lights. A figure stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who filled a doorway just by standing in it. DCI Richard Graves, her temporary superior since Morris’s disappearance. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair. He held a Styrofoam cup of tea that had gone cold hours ago. Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t owe him an explanation. Graves gestured toward the body. “Over here. It’s a mess.” She followed the line of his arm. The victim lay sprawled near the edge of the platform, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, the other stretched toward the tracks as if he’d been mid-stride when death caught him. His suit was expensive—tailored, charcoal gray, the kind that whispered *City banker* or *corporate lawyer*. His face was turned away, but the back of his skull was a ruin of matted hair and something darker, something wet and glistening. A brick lay nearby, its edges stained. Quinn crouched, her knees popping in protest. She didn’t touch the brick. Not yet. Instead, she studied the victim’s hands—manicured nails, a signet ring on the pinky, the gold dull in the poor light. No defensive wounds. No signs of a struggle. Just the brick, and the blood, and the way his body was positioned as if he’d been *placed* rather than fallen. “Robbery gone wrong?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. The wallet was still in his inside pocket, the fat fold of it visible through the fabric. Graves snorted. “You think muggers in Camden have started carrying monogrammed handkerchiefs?” He nudged the victim’s jacket with the toe of his shoe, revealing a square of white linen peeking from the breast pocket, the initials *E.K.* embroidered in delicate script. Quinn’s fingers twitched. She reached for the handkerchief, then stopped. Something was off. The blood spatter was wrong—too controlled, too *neat*. The brick was clean except for the business end, as if it had been wiped. And the victim’s shoes—polished Oxfords, not a scuff on them. No dirt from the platform, no signs he’d been running. She glanced at the tracks. No drag marks. No signs he’d been chased. She stood, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension knotting between her blades. “This isn’t a mugging.” “No?” Graves folded his arms. “Then what is it, Detective? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like some poor bastard got his skull caved in by a brick. Open and shut.” Quinn ignored him. She stepped closer to the ticket booth, her torch beam cutting through the gloom. The wood was rotten, the glass long shattered, but something glinted in the grime near the base. She crouched again, her breath shallow. A small brass object, half-buried in the dust. She pulled a pencil from her pocket and nudged it free. A compass. No, not just a compass. The casing was brass, etched with sigils that made her eyes ache if she looked too long. The needle didn’t point north. It twitched erratically, as if caught between two invisible magnets. A patina of verdigris marred the surface, the greenish hue of old copper roofs. She’d seen something like it once before—in Morris’s effects, after he’d vanished. The department had called it a “trinket.” She’d called it evidence. Graves loomed over her shoulder. “What’ve you got?” Quinn didn’t answer. She flipped the compass over. The back was smooth, unmarked except for a single symbol carved near the hinge—a crescent moon cradling a star. Her fingers tingled. She knew that symbol. She’d seen it in Morris’s notes, scribbled in the margins of a case file that had been *misplaced* before she could follow up. “Quinn.” Graves’s voice was sharp. “You’re holding evidence. Hand it over.” She pocketed the compass. His jaw tightened. “That’s an order.” “It’s a lead.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “And unless you want to explain to the brass why we’re sitting on another supernatural clusterfuck, you’ll let me run with it.” Graves’s face darkened. He opened his mouth— A sound cut him off. A scuffle, a muffled curse. Quinn’s head snapped toward the far end of the platform, where the tunnel yawned like a throat. A figure stumbled into the light, her curly red hair escaping a hasty bun, her round glasses askew. Eva Kowalski. She clutched a worn leather satchel to her chest, her freckled face pale beneath the fluorescents. Her breath came in short gasps, as if she’d been running. Quinn’s stomach dropped. *E.K.* Eva’s gaze locked onto the body, then flicked to the handkerchief. Her fingers whitened around the strap of her satchel. “Oh God.” Graves stepped forward, his voice a growl. “Eva Kowalski? You’re a hard woman to track down.” Eva swallowed. “I—I didn’t do this.” “Then why’d you bolt when we called your name?” Quinn asked, her voice low. Eva’s eyes darted between them, wide and green and *guilty*. “Because I *know* what this looks like. But I didn’t—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. Then, quieter: “He was already dead when I got here.” Quinn studied her—the way her pulse jumped in her throat, the way she kept tucking the same strand of hair behind her left ear, over and over. A nervous habit. A tell. But not the tell of a killer. “You knew him.” Eva hesitated. Then, barely a whisper: “His name was Elias Kroger. He was a collector.” “Of what?” Eva’s gaze flicked to the compass in Quinn’s pocket. “Things that don’t belong in this world.” A beat of silence. Graves exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath. “You’re both insane. There’s no such thing as—” “Supernatural bullshit?” Quinn finished. She pulled the compass free, held it up. The needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing toward the tunnel. Toward the darkness. “Then what’s *that*?” Graves didn’t answer. His face had gone slack, the color draining from his cheeks. Eva’s voice was barely audible. “That’s a Veil Compass. It points to rifts—places where the barriers between worlds are thin.” She wet her lips. “Elias was looking for one. He said he’d found a market beneath Camden, a place where you could buy anything if you had the right… currency.” She reached into her satchel, pulled out a small object. A token, carved from bone. Quinn’s skin prickled. She knew that story. Morris had told her once, over whiskey in a pub near the station, his voice low, his eyes too bright. *There’s a market, Harlow. A real fucking market. And it’s not for us.* Graves made a sound—half laugh, half choke. “You’re telling me this is about some *underground fairy bazaar*?” “Not fairies.” Eva’s voice was steady now, her fear giving way to something sharper. Urgency. “Something older. Something hungrier.” She looked at Quinn. “You’ve seen this before. I know you have.” Quinn didn’t deny it. She thought of Morris’s last case file, the pages ripped out, the way his desk had been *cleaned* before she could get to it. The way his body had never been found. The compass needle twitched. Quinn followed its pull, stepping toward the edge of the platform. The air grew colder. Her breath fogged. The darkness in the tunnel wasn’t just absence of light. It was *depth*. It was *weight*. It was the same wrongness she’d felt the night Morris vanished, the same pressure in her skull, like her brain was too big for her bones. Graves grabbed her arm. “Quinn. *Stop*.” She shook him off. “You feel that?” He didn’t answer. His face was sheened with sweat. Eva moved beside her, close enough that Quinn could smell the ink on her skin, the old-paper scent of her satchel. “The market moves every full moon. Tonight’s the last night it’ll be here.” She swallowed. “If Elias found it, he wasn’t the only one looking.” Quinn’s gaze dropped to the victim’s outstretched hand. His fingers were relaxed, but his palm was smudged with something dark. Not blood. Ash. And beneath it, barely visible, a symbol scratched into his skin. The same crescent-and-star from the compass. She crouched, examined it closer. The edges of the symbol were *wrong*—too precise, like they’d been burned rather than drawn. The skin around it was puckered, blistered. Eva hissed. “That’s a Shade mark. A *warning*.” Quinn stood. “Then we’re walking into a trap.” “Or,” Eva said, “we’re the only ones who can stop whatever’s coming through.” Graves made a sound of disgust. “This is madness. Both of you—*stop*. We call this in. We let the brass handle it.” Quinn looked at him. Really looked. The way his hands shook. The sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his eyes kept darting to the tunnel, then away, as if he was afraid to look too long. She knew that fear. She also knew he wouldn’t be calling anyone. “You’ve seen it before,” she said softly. “Haven’t you?” Graves’s throat worked. For a second, she thought he’d deny it. Then: “Three years ago. A warehouse in Docklands. Morris’s case.” His voice was rough. “I pulled strings to get assigned to you after. Thought if anyone could make sense of it…” He trailed off, shook his head. “But this? This is beyond sense.” Quinn turned back to the tunnel. The compass needle was steady now, unblinking. An invitation. Or a dare. She took a step forward. Eva fell into stride beside her. “We’ll need tokens. And something to bargain with.” Quinn didn’t ask what. She already knew. Graves didn’t follow. But he didn’t stop them, either. The darkness swallowed them whole.