Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQFVMPX8PZ0FNXNGTPBTJY

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots clicking against the cracked tiles. The air hummed with the kind of quiet that only existed in places people had forgotten. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist, its strap loose from years of use. "Quinn." Detective Sergeant Cole stood near the far wall, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His breath fogged in the cold. "Took you long enough." She ignored the jab. "What’ve we got?" "Body’s over here." He jerked his chin toward a crumpled shape beneath a flickering fluorescent light. "Male, mid-thirties. No ID. No wallet. No phone." Quinn crouched beside the corpse. The man’s face was frozen in a rictus of surprise, his mouth stretched too wide, eyes bulging. His fingers were curled into claws, nails blackened at the tips. She touched the back of his hand—still warm. "Time of death?" "Less than an hour," Cole said. "Uniforms got the call from a homeless guy who swears he heard screaming down here. By the time they arrived, this was it." Quinn stood, scanning the platform. The walls were covered in graffiti, but one symbol stood out—a jagged sigil, fresh, the paint still glistening. It looked like something clawed its way out of the brick. "Notice anything odd?" she asked. Cole shrugged. "Besides the fact we’re standing in a ghost station? Nope." She pointed at the sigil. "That’s new." "Kids. Probably some goths playing around." Quinn pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and snapped them on. She traced the edges of the symbol with her fingers. The paint was thick, almost sticky. "This isn’t spray paint. It’s too precise. And it’s not just on the wall." She knelt again, brushing her fingers over the dead man’s collar. A faint residue clung to the fabric—same texture, same sheen. Cole exhaled through his nose. "You’re reaching." "Am I?" She stood, wiping her gloves on her trousers. "No defensive wounds. No signs of struggle. But look at his face. That’s not fear. That’s *pain*." "Heart attack?" "At thirty-five? With no history?" She shook her head. "And what’s he doing down here in the first place? This station’s been sealed for decades." Cole crossed his arms. "Maybe he was meeting someone. Drug deal gone wrong. Or he got lost." Quinn walked the length of the platform, her gaze sweeping over the tracks. The rails were rusted, the third rail dead. But something glinted near the edge—a small brass object half-buried in the gravel. She picked it up, turning it over in her palm. A compass. The needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing toward the far wall. Cole frowned. "What’s that?" "Nothing." She pocketed it. "Just trash." But the needle twitched again, as if alive. She turned back to the body. The man’s shoes were scuffed, the soles worn thin. No mud, no dirt—just dust. Like he hadn’t walked anywhere but here. And his clothes—cheap, but new. No wallet, no phone, but his pockets weren’t empty. She reached in and pulled out a small bone token, carved with the same sigil from the wall. Cole’s eyebrows shot up. "What the hell is that?" Quinn turned it over. The bone was smooth, polished. Not human. "I don’t know." "Looks like some kind of occult crap." "Yeah." She slipped it into an evidence bag. "It does." Cole rubbed his temples. "You’re not seriously suggesting this is supernatural, are you? Because last I checked, we don’t investigate ghosts." Quinn ignored him. She walked to the edge of the platform, staring down at the tracks. The darkness beyond the reach of the flickering lights seemed thicker, like the shadows were breathing. She pulled out her phone and snapped a few photos of the sigil, the body, the compass in her pocket. Cole sighed. "You’re wasting time. This is a dead junkie who OD’d in a creepy place. Case closed." Quinn turned back to him. "Then why is there no vomit? No foam at the mouth? No track marks?" "Maybe he smoked it. Snorted it." "Maybe." She stepped closer to the wall, running her fingers over the brick. The sigil pulsed faintly under her touch, like a heartbeat. "Or maybe he didn’t take anything at all." Cole threw his hands up. "You’re impossible." Quinn pulled out the compass again. The needle was still now, pointing directly at the sigil. She pressed her palm against the wall. The brick was cold, but beneath her fingers, something thrummed. Cole’s radio crackled. "DS Cole, we’ve got another call. Possible 10-54 near the canal." He hesitated, then shook his head. "I’m out. You coming?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was staring at the compass, at the way the needle trembled. Cole sighed. "Fine. Stay here and chase shadows. But don’t come crying to me when the brass asks why we’re not closing cases." He walked away, his footsteps echoing down the tunnel. Quinn waited until the sound faded, then pulled out the bone token again. It was warm now, almost hot. She turned it over in her fingers. The sigil matched the one on the wall. The one the compass pointed to. She pocketed the token and the compass, then pulled out her phone. The screen lit up with a single name—Eva Kowalski. The call connected after two rings. "Quinn?" Eva’s voice was sharp, wary. "What’s wrong?" Quinn looked at the body, at the sigil, at the darkness beyond the platform. "I need to ask you about the Veil Market."