Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPZSKX4WF2FVYQMCW12SQH

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 and shrank like living things. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, its strap loose from years of use, and exhaled through her nose. "Alright, Walker. What’ve we got?" Detective Sergeant Walker turned from the body, his face pale under the artificial light. He was young, still had that eager shine to him, the kind of cop who thought he could outrun the rot of the job if he just worked hard enough. Quinn had seen it before. She’d been that cop once. "Male, mid-thirties," Walker said, gesturing to the corpse sprawled across the tracks. "No ID, no wallet, nothing. Looks like he took a header onto the rails, but—" "But?" Quinn crouched beside the body, her sharp jaw tightening as she took in the details. The man’s limbs were splayed at unnatural angles, his fingers curled into claws. His skin had a grayish tint, like old parchment, and his lips were pulled back in a rictus grin. Not the face of a man who’d gone peacefully. "But the coroner’s initial take is that he didn’t die from the fall," Walker said. "No broken bones, no trauma consistent with impact. Just… dead." Quinn reached into her coat pocket and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, the snap of the latex loud in the silence. She pressed her fingers to the man’s neck, then his wrist. The skin was cold, but not in the way it should’ve been. Not the clammy chill of a fresh corpse. This was different. Like touching a stone that had been left in the shade for hours. "Time of death?" she asked. "ME’s estimating between midnight and two AM. But here’s the thing—" Walker hesitated, then pointed to the man’s left hand. "His fingers. Look." Quinn did. The man’s index finger was blackened at the tip, the skin charred as if he’d pressed it to a hot stove. But the burn wasn’t fresh. It was old. Days old, maybe longer. "Didn’t happen here," she murmured. "Nope." Walker shifted his weight, his shoes squeaking against the tile. "And there’s this." He reached into an evidence bag and pulled out a small brass compass, its casing dull with verdigris. The needle spun lazily, as if caught in a breeze no one else could feel. Quinn’s stomach tightened. She knew this thing. Had seen one just like it in a case file three years ago, back when Morris was still alive. Back when she still believed in things like logic and procedure. "Where’d you find it?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. "Clutched in his hand. Like he was using it right before he died." Quinn took the compass, turning it over in her gloved fingers. The face was etched with strange symbols, sigils that made her eyes ache if she looked at them too long. She’d seen enough occult nonsense in her time to know this wasn’t some tourist trinket. "Boss?" Walker’s voice was hesitant. "You ever seen something like this before?" Quinn pocketed the compass before he could protest. "No." Walker blinked. "But—" "But nothing. We treat this like any other suspicious death. Secure the scene, canvass the area, see if anyone saw this guy before he ended up here." She stood, brushing dust from her knees. "And Walker?" "Yeah?" "Don’t mention the compass to anyone else. Not yet." Walker opened his mouth, then closed it. Nodded. "Right. Got it." Quinn turned away, her mind already racing. The compass was a problem. A big one. Because the last time she’d seen one, Morris had been alive. And then he hadn’t been. --- The station’s old ticket booth had been repurposed as a makeshift command center, its glass windows cracked and grimy. Quinn leaned against the counter, flipping through the victim’s preliminary tox screen. Nothing. No drugs, no alcohol, no obvious poisons. Just a man who’d died for no good reason. Walker was outside, coordinating with the uniforms. Quinn could hear his voice through the glass, sharp with authority. Good. Let him play the eager rookie for a while. She needed space to think. She pulled the compass out again, setting it on the counter. The needle spun in slow circles, never settling. She tapped it with her finger. Nothing. No reaction. Just a hunk of metal that shouldn’t exist. A shadow fell across the booth’s doorway. "Detective Quinn." Quinn didn’t look up. "Eva." Eva Kowalski stepped inside, her round glasses catching the light as she adjusted them. Her curly red hair was tucked behind her left ear—a nervous habit Quinn had noticed before. The leather satchel slung over her shoulder was stuffed with books, the spines cracked from use. "Walker said you were down here," Eva said. "Thought I’d check in." Quinn finally looked at her. Eva was Aurora’s friend, which made her a person of interest by default. But she was also the closest thing Quinn had to an expert on the weird shit that kept cropping up in her cases. "You know what this is?" Quinn asked, nudging the compass with her finger. Eva’s freckled face went still. She stepped closer, her breath hitching as she took in the sigils. "Where did you get this?" "Victim had it on him. You recognize it?" Eva reached out, then hesitated. "May I?" Quinn nodded. Eva picked up the compass, turning it over in her hands. Her fingers traced the sigils, her lips moving silently. Then she set it down with a sharp *click*. "This is a Veil Compass," she said. "It’s attuned to supernatural energy. Points toward the nearest rift or portal." Quinn’s pulse kicked up. "And where’s the nearest rift?" Eva’s green eyes flicked to hers. "You don’t want to know." "Try me." Eva exhaled, tucking her hair behind her ear again. "The Veil Market. It’s a black market for supernatural goods. Moves locations every full moon. Last I heard, it was beneath Camden." Quinn’s stomach dropped. "Beneath Camden." "Yeah. Why?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy remembering the last time she’d been beneath Camden. The last time she’d seen Morris alive. Eva must’ve seen something in her face because she leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Quinn, what is it?" Quinn shook her head. "Nothing. Just… bad memories." Eva studied her for a long moment, then reached into her satchel. She pulled out a book—old, leather-bound, the pages yellowed with age. She flipped it open to a marked page and set it on the counter. "Three years ago," Eva said quietly. "A detective died down here. DS Morris. Your partner." Quinn’s hands curled into fists. "What’s your point?" "My point is that Morris didn’t die in a shootout like the official report says. He died because he got too close to something he shouldn’t have." Eva tapped the page. "Something like this." Quinn looked down. The book was open to an illustration of a compass, identical to the one on the counter. Beneath it, in cramped, spidery script, were the words: *The Veil Compass. A guide for the lost. A death sentence for the unprepared.* Quinn’s throat went dry. Eva closed the book. "This isn’t just a murder, Quinn. It’s a warning." Quinn wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Eva she was jumping at shadows, that the world wasn’t some cheap horror story. But the compass was still spinning on the counter, its needle twitching like a living thing. And Quinn knew, with a cold certainty, that Eva was right.