Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPVRND7Y377CXGQ3Y2TAWF

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots scuffing against the cracked tiles of what had once been Camden Town station. The overhead lights flickered, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers across the graffiti-scarred walls. Her leather watch creaked as she adjusted it, the worn strap familiar against her wrist. "Quinn." The voice came from the platform below, where a cluster of uniforms milled about like lost sheep. Detective Sergeant Cole stood near the body, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression grim. "Took you long enough." She ignored the jab. "What've we got?" Cole jerked his chin toward the far end of the platform, where a sheet-covered figure lay sprawled across the tracks. "Male, mid-thirties. No ID. Looks like he took a header onto the rails, but—" He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's something off about it." Quinn crouched beside the body, her sharp jaw tightening as she lifted the sheet. The victim's face was frozen in a rictus of terror, his eyes wide and unblinking, mouth stretched in a silent scream. His clothes were expensive—tailored wool coat, Italian leather shoes—but his hands were raw, knuckles split like he'd been clawing at something. Or someone. "Defensive wounds?" Cole offered. "Maybe." Quinn ran her fingers along the man's sleeve, pausing at the cuff. A fine layer of dust clung to the fabric, glittering faintly under the harsh station lights. She rubbed it between her fingers. Not dust. Ash. "You check the pockets?" "Empty. No wallet, no phone, nothing." She stood, scanning the platform. The usual detritus of a Tube station was absent—no discarded tickets, no chewing gum stains, no lost gloves. Just more of that ash, scattered in a thin trail leading toward the tunnel mouth. "Where's the CCTV?" Cole snorted. "You're joking, right? This place has been shut down since the '90s. No cameras, no power, nothing." Quinn exhaled through her nose. That was the problem with these old stations. Too many blind spots. Too many ways for things to slip through the cracks. She stepped closer to the tunnel, her pulse kicking up a notch as she caught the faintest whisper of something—like wind through a crack in a window. But the air was still. Dead still. "Quinn." Cole's voice was low, urgent. "You're not buying this suicide angle, are you?" She didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small brass compass, its casing etched with strange, looping sigils. The needle trembled, then swung violently toward the tunnel. Cole's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that?" "Nothing." She snapped the compass shut and tucked it away. "Just a hunch." Cole stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You think this is connected to the Morris case." It wasn't a question. Quinn's fingers twitched at her side. Three years. Three years since DS Morris had walked into a similar abandoned station and never walked out. The official report called it a gas leak. A tragic accident. But Quinn had seen the body. Had seen the way his skin had been stretched too tight over his bones, like something had been *sucked* out of him. She forced herself to focus. "We need to canvass the area. Someone had to have seen something." Cole shook his head. "Already did. No one saw a damn thing. It's like this guy just materialized out of thin air." Quinn's gaze flicked back to the tunnel. The ash. The compass. The way the victim's fingers looked like he'd been *digging* at something. She thought of the stories Morris used to tell her—whispers of a black market hidden beneath the city, a place where things that weren't quite human traded in things that weren't quite legal. She thought of the bone token in her pocket. "Quinn." Cole's voice was sharp now. "You're not seriously considering—" She cut him off with a look. "I'm considering the facts. And the facts don't add up." She turned back to the body, her mind racing. The ash. The lack of ID. The way the victim's terror didn't match the scene. Suicides didn't claw at the air like they were trying to escape something. They didn't leave trails of glittering dust behind. She crouched again, this time pulling a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. The victim's coat was torn at the shoulder, the fabric frayed like it had been caught on something. She peeled it back, revealing a small, circular burn mark on the skin beneath. Not a burn. A brand. A sigil, its edges too precise to be accidental. Cole leaned in. "What the hell is that?" Quinn's stomach twisted. She'd seen that symbol before. In Morris's notes. In the margins of a case file he'd been obsessed with before he died. A case involving a missing researcher from the British Museum. A case that had led him straight to the Veil Market. She stood abruptly, her military precision snapping back into place. "We're done here. Get the body to the morgue. I want a full tox screen, and I want that symbol run through every database we've got." Cole frowned. "You're not coming?" "Not yet." She was already moving toward the tunnel, her boots echoing against the concrete. "I've got a lead to follow." Cole grabbed her arm. "Quinn, whatever you're thinking—don't. Morris went down this road. Look where it got him." She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "I know." And she did. She knew exactly where this road led. But she was going anyway.