Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPFG1BH4GPXWPMAEETETBB

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the back of the throat like rust. Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellowed police tape, her boots scuffing against the gritty floor. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling posters from the 1940s—*Keep Calm and Carry On*—their edges curled like dying leaves. Ahead, the platform stretched into darkness, swallowed by the tunnel’s gaping mouth. A figure shifted near the edge, the glow of a cigarette cherry flaring as he inhaled. DCI Tom Whitaker, his overcoat rumpled, his tie loosened like he’d already given up on the day. "Took your time, Quinn. Thought you’d got lost in the archives again." She didn’t rise to it. Her torch flicked past him, landing on the body. The man—late thirties, suit still crisp despite the blood—lay sprawled half on the platform, half off, one arm dangling over the edge like he’d been mid-gesture when death took him. His face was frozen in something worse than surprise. Terror. The kind that hollowed a man out from the inside. Harlow crouched, the knees of her trousers brushing against the damp. No lividity pooling where it should. No rigor, either, not really. Just the faintest stiffness, like he’d been posed. She reached for his wrist, not expecting a pulse, but the skin wasn’t cold. Not yet. "Time of death?" Whitaker exhaled smoke. "Coroner’s guess? Two, three hours ago. But you know how it is down here—temperature’s all over the place." She didn’t answer. Her fingers traced the man’s collar, then stilled. The fabric was dry. Too dry. The station had been damp for decades; the air thick enough to taste. Yet his shirtfront was pristine, like he’d been kept somewhere else entirely before being dumped here. Her torch swept the platform again. No drag marks. No scuffs. No signs of a struggle. Whitaker shifted, the sole of his shoe grinding against a loose pebble. "Robbery gone wrong, maybe. Or a deal. This place is crawling with junkies and squatters." Harlow’s jaw tightened. Junkies didn’t leave bodies this clean. And squatters didn’t dress their victims in tailored suits. Her light caught something near the man’s fingers—a glint of brass, half-buried under his palm. She tugged a latex glove from her pocket, snapped it on. The object was small, heavy for its size. A compass, its casing etched with symbols that weren’t any language she recognised. The needle didn’t point north. It twitched, erratic, like a thing alive. Whitaker leaned in, squinting. "What the hell’s that?" She didn’t answer. The compass’s face was warm, as if it had been held recently. The patina of verdigris on the brass was uneven, worn smooth in places, like it had been handled often. Too often for a trinket. She turned it over. No maker’s mark. No serial number. Just more of those damn symbols, carved deep. A sound echoed from the tunnel—a distant *click*, like a bootheel on metal. Harlow’s head snapped up. The beam of her torch stabbed into the dark, but the light petered out after twenty feet, swallowed by the black. "You hear that?" Whitaker frowned. "Hear what?" She didn’t bother repeating herself. The compass needle spun wildly, then locked in place, pointing straight into the tunnel’s maw. A draft whispered past her neck, cold as a blade. The hairs on her arms stood up. Whitaker stubbed out his cigarette, straightening. "Right. Let’s not get spooked. This place is just a wind tunnel. Probably rats." Harlow ignored him. She pocketed the compass, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch—DS Morris’s watch, now hers by default—and stood. The body wasn’t the primary scene. This man hadn’t died here. Which meant someone had moved him. And if the compass was any indication, they’d moved him *from* somewhere far worse. She stepped toward the tunnel. Whitaker’s hand shot out, gripping her shoulder. "Where the hell are you going?" "Following the evidence." His grip tightened. "Quinn, come on. There’s nothing down there but dark and more dark. Let’s wait for backup." She looked at his fingers until he dropped his hand. "Backup’s twenty minutes out. You know that." "And?" "And this station hasn’t been used in seventy years. No power. No working signals. If our man’s killer is still down here, he’s getting away while we stand around." Whitaker’s mouth twisted. "Or it’s a trap." "Then it’s a trap we spring before someone else gets hurt." He muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. Just adjusted his coat and pulled his own torch from his belt. "Fine. But if we find a nest of crackheads with knives, I’m letting you take the first stab." She didn’t smile. The tunnel swallowed them whole. The air thickened the deeper they went, the torch beams thinning to anaemic threads. The compass pulsed against Harlow’s thigh, its needle unwavering. She kept her free hand near her sidearm, fingers flexing. The silence wasn’t right. No drips. No scuttling. Just the hollow echo of their footsteps and the rasp of their breathing. Then—light. Not the sickly yellow of their torches, but something blue-white, flickering like a dying bulb. It seeped from a gap in the tunnel wall, a jagged tear in the brickwork just wide enough to slip through. The compass needle spun, then pressed flat against the glass, pointing straight at the opening. Harlow stopped. Whitaker nearly walked into her. "Christ, Quinn, warn a man before you—" He followed her gaze. "What is that?" She didn’t answer. The light pulsed, slow as a heartbeat. And from the gap, a scent drifted—ozone and something sweet, like rotting flowers. Her stomach twisted. Whitaker reached for his radio. "We need to call this in." Harlow’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. "No." His eyebrows shot up. "No?" "Not yet." She nodded at the gap. "That’s not a squatter’s hideout." He stared at her, then at the light. Swallowed. "You’re not seriously suggesting—" "Three years ago," she said, low, "you pulled me off the Morris case. Told me I was seeing things. That I needed a break." Whitaker’s face went carefully blank. "That was different." "Was it?" She released him. "I’m going in. You can wait here or come with me. But if you call for backup, I’ll make sure every officer in the Met knows you left a potential suspect to cover his own arse." His jaw worked. Then he cursed, sharp and vicious, but he didn’t reach for the radio again. Harlow turned sideways, slipping through the gap. The brickwork was slick under her palms, coated in something damp and faintly luminous. The air on the other side was warmer, thick with the scent of iron and something older, something that made her teeth ache. The space beyond wasn’t a room. It was a *market*. Stalls lined a narrow corridor, their wares lit by floating orbs of that same blue-white light. Bottles of murky liquid. Bundles of herbs tied with red string. A jar of teeth—human, by the look of them—floating in brine. And the *people*. A woman with skin like polished mahogany and eyes entirely black. A man in a threadbare suit, his fingers too long, too jointed. A child—no, not a child, something wearing a child’s face—grinning as it gnawed on a chicken bone, its teeth too sharp. Harlow’s breath hitched. Whitaker’s voice was a strangled whisper behind her. "What in God’s name—?" A figure detached from the shadows near a stall draped in velvet. Tall. Pale. Dressed in a coat that seemed to drink the light. His smile was slow, knowing. "Ah. New customers." Harlow’s hand went to her sidearm. The man’s gaze flicked to the movement, amused. "No need for that, Detective. Not here." Her fingers stilled. "You know who I am." "Of course." His voice was smooth, like oil on water. "Harlow Quinn. Quite the reputation, even down here." He tilted his head. "Though I doubt you meant to find us." She didn’t lower her hand. "This is a crime scene." "Is it?" He spread his hands. "We’re merely merchants. The surface world’s laws don’t apply." Whitaker made a choked sound. Harlow shot him a glance—his face was grey, his torch beam trembling. She turned back to the man. "A body was dumped in the tunnel. Male, late thirties. Suit. He was carrying this." She pulled the compass from her pocket, held it up. The man’s smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. "Ah. A Veil Compass." He tsked. "Dangerous thing, in the wrong hands." "Whose hands was it in?" He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat, withdrew a small bone token. Held it out. "For the detective. A gesture of goodwill." She didn’t take it. "I want information." "The dead man’s name was Richard Langley. A collector." The man’s fingers curled around the token. "He came seeking something he shouldn’t have. The Market… dislikes thieves." Whitaker’s voice was thin. "You killed him?" The man’s gaze slid to him, dismissive. "The Market is neutral. It merely *enforces*." Harlow’s thumb brushed the compass. "Enforces what?" But the man was already turning away, melting back into the shadows. The stalls seemed to recede with him, the blue-white light dimming, as if the Market itself was retreating. Whitaker grabbed her arm. "Quinn, we need to *go*." She didn’t argue. Not yet. As they stumbled back through the gap, the brickwork sealing shut behind them with a sound like a sigh, the compass in her pocket grew cold. And the needle began to spin again.