Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPXCJ5DG7ZEBFKH31NQVCM

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 police tape, her boots silent on the cracked tile. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating graffiti that hadn’t been there last week—symbols, not tags. Jagged lines that made her teeth ache if she looked too long. “You’re late.” A uniformed constable straightened from where he’d been leaning against a corroded pillar, arms crossed. His nameplate read *Waters*. “Scene’s been secured for twenty minutes.” Quinn didn’t break stride. “Secured from what, exactly?” Waters exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “You’ll see.” The body lay sprawled at the base of the platform, limbs splayed like a broken marionette. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored suit that had cost more than Waters made in a month. His throat was a ruin of torn flesh, but the blood—what little there was—had pooled *wrong*. Not beneath him. To the side. As if gravity had taken a coffee break mid-murder. Quinn crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the wound. “No defensive marks. No signs of struggle.” “Robbery gone bad?” Waters offered. “Wallet’s missing.” She shot him a look. The wallet lay half-hidden under the victim’s hip, leather peeking out like a shy child. “You mean that wallet?” Waters’ jaw tightened. “Didn’t see it.” Quinn didn’t call him on it. Instead, she reached for the man’s left hand. The fingers were stiff, curled around something small and metallic. She pried them open. A brass compass, its face etched with sigils that matched the graffiti. The needle twitched, then spun wildly before settling on the tunnel’s far end. “What the hell is that?” Waters leaned in, then recoiled like he’d been burned. “Feels… off.” Quinn ignored the prickle at the base of her skull. “Bag it. And get me the victim’s ID.” She stood, torch sweeping the platform. The beam caught on something near the tracks—a bone token, carved with the same symbols. Fresh. The edges hadn’t even dulled. Footsteps echoed behind her. “Detective.” Quinn turned. A woman in a rumpled trench coat stood at the platform’s edge, round glasses reflecting the dim light. Freckles stood out stark against pale skin, and her curly red hair was tucked behind one ear in a gesture so repeated it looked involuntary. “Eva Kowalski,” the woman said. “British Museum. I was called in to consult on the… unusual aspects.” Quinn crossed her arms. “And those are?” Eva adjusted her glasses, then pointed at the graffiti. “Those markings? They’re not graffiti. They’re a ward. A sloppy one, but functional.” She stepped closer, satchel bumping her hip. “This place isn’t just abandoned. It’s *hidden*. And someone just ripped the hiding spell wide open.” Waters scoffed. “You’re telling me this is magic?” Eva didn’t look at him. “I’m telling you this is the Veil Market. Or it was, until someone left the door ajar.” Quinn’s fingers tightened around the compass in her pocket. The needle hadn’t stopped moving. “Explain.” “Underground black market. Supernatural goods, information, the occasional cursed artefact. Moves locations every full moon.” Eva finally met Quinn’s gaze. “Your victim? He wasn’t robbed. He was *shopping*. And whatever he bought, it killed him.” A shout rang out from the tunnel. Another uniform, voice tight with panic. “Detective! You need to see this!” Quinn moved before the words finished echoing. The tunnel curved, her torchlight bouncing off wet walls until it caught on a figure standing too still, too *wrong*. A man—if it was a man—tall and thin as a blade, his suit the colour of old bruises. His face was all sharp angles, shadows pooling where features should’ve been. Waters’ breath hitched. “What in God’s name—?” The figure tilted its head. The movement was smooth, unnatural, like a film strip missing frames. Then it smiled. Quinn’s hand went to her sidearm. “Eva. What is that?” Eva’s voice was steady, but her fingers dug into her satchel strap. “A Shade. They’re… collectors. Middlemen for the Market. Harmless, usually.” The Shade took a step forward. The air thickened, like breathing through syrup. “Detective Harlow Quinn,” it said, voice layered with whispers. “You hold what is ours.” Quinn didn’t lower her gun. “This your market?” The Shade’s smile widened. “A customer failed to pay. We *repossess*.” Waters made a choked sound. “It’s talking about the *compass*?” Eva’s nails bit into her palm. “Give it back. Now.” Quinn didn’t move. “What happens if I don’t?” The Shade’s form rippled, edges blurring like ink in water. “Then we take payment in *flesh*.” Behind them, the body on the platform twitched. Quinn’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Eva. How do we end this?” Eva swallowed. “Salt. Iron. Or give it the damn compass.” The Shade lunged. Quinn fired. The bullet passed through the figure like it was smoke, embedding in the tunnel wall with a *ping*. The Shade didn’t slow. Its hand—too long, too many fingers—closed around her wrist. Cold. So cold it burned. Then Eva was there, slamming a handful of salt into the Shade’s face. It shrieked, the sound a knife between the ribs, and recoiled. The compass clattered to the ground. Quinn snatched it up and hurled it at the Shade. “Here’s your bloody payment!” The Shade caught it midair, then dissolved into the dark, the compass’s needle spinning like a top before vanishing with it. Silence. Waters was on his knees, hyperventilating. Eva pressed a hand to her ribs, breath ragged. Quinn picked up the bone token from where it had fallen, turning it over in her fingers. Eva wiped her glasses on her sleeve. “You just made an enemy.” Quinn pocketed the token. “I’ve had worse.” The body on the platform twitched again. This time, it didn’t stop.