Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQJGXJQGDP8Y7CP7EX85AQ

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 scuffing against the gritty floor. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating graffiti-scarred walls and the occasional glint of broken glass. Not the usual haunt for a murder. A uniformed officer nodded at her, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights strung up by the forensics team. "Detective. Scene’s over there. DS Carter’s already—" "I know where it is." She didn’t slow down. The air thickened as she descended the last of the crumbling steps, the weight of the city pressing down from above. This part of Camden hadn’t seen a train in decades, but the tracks still gleamed wetly, as if something had been dragged along them recently. DS Carter stood near the body, arms crossed, his bulk blocking most of her view. He didn’t turn as she approached. "Took your time." Harlow ignored that. Her torch landed on the victim first—a man in his late thirties, sprawled face-up on the platform. His suit was expensive, tailored, now ruined by the dark stain spreading across his chest. His tie had been loosened, as if he’d clawed at it in his last moments. No wallet, no phone. Just a single object clutched in his stiffened fingers: a small brass compass, its face etched with strange, spiralling marks. She crouched, gloved fingers hovering over it. "This his?" Carter grunted. "No ID, but the suit’s got a label—savile row. Not your average Camden junkie." Harlow’s torch flickered over the compass. The needle didn’t point north. It twitched erratically, like a living thing. She exhaled through her nose. "What’s the official line?" "Robbery gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time." Carter shifted, his shoes crunching on something unseen. "But you’re not buying that." She didn’t answer. The victim’s face was unmarked, no signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds on his hands. Just the compass, and the way his fingers had frozen around it, as if he’d been trying to *use* it when he died. Harlow stood, torch sweeping the platform. The graffiti here wasn’t the usual tags. Symbols—circles within circles, lines intersecting at odd angles—covered the walls in faded white paint. Some were fresh. Some looked decades old, layered over each other like whispers in a language no one spoke anymore. Carter followed her gaze. "Occult nonsense. Kids messing around." She reached into her coat, pulled out a notebook. Flipped to a page near the back, where she’d sketched similar symbols after Morris’s death. Not identical, but close enough to make her skin prickle. "You ever hear of the Veil Market?" Carter’s jaw tightened. "Christ, Quinn. Not this again." She ignored him, moving to the edge of the platform. The tracks below were wet, but not from rain. The metallic tang of blood lingered, though there wasn’t enough of it here. Not for a fatal wound. She knelt, running her fingers along the rail. Sticky. Fresh. A shadow shifted near the tunnel’s mouth. Harlow’s torch snapped up, catching a flicker of movement—something pale, too fast to be human. Carter didn’t react. Of course he didn’t. She stood abruptly. "Where’s the blood trail?" Carter blinked. "What?" "The victim didn’t bleed out here." She gestured to the body, then the tracks. "He was moved. And not by the killer—*after* he was dead." Carter rubbed his temple. "You’re reaching. The ME’s report will say—" "The ME isn’t here yet." Harlow stepped over the body, torch beam cutting into the darkness of the tunnel. The walls here were smoother, the graffiti thicker. And there—something glinted on the ground. She crouched, plucked it up. A bone token, no larger than a coin, carved with the same spiralling symbols as the compass. Warm to the touch, as if it had been held recently. Carter groaned. "You’re telling me some satanic cult did this?" Harlow didn’t answer. She turned the token over in her palm. The victim’s compass needle had pointed toward the tunnel. Toward *this*. Footsteps echoed behind them. A forensics tech, her face grim under the blue light of her headlamp. "Detective? We’ve got something else." Harlow followed her to the far wall. Behind a rusted service door, half-hidden by a tattered poster, was a symbol carved into the stone. Fresh. The edges were still sharp, flecks of dust on the floor beneath it. Carter swore under his breath. "That wasn’t there when we first swept the scene." Harlow’s fingers traced the outline. A circle, bisected by a jagged line. A doorway. Or a warning. She pulled out her phone, snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the tunnel beyond, just for a second. Long enough to see the archway. It hadn’t been there before. A curve of dark stone, etched with more of those damn symbols, standing where the tunnel should’ve ended in a dead wall. The air around it shimmered, like heat haze. Carter’s voice was tight. "Quinn. What the hell is *that*?" Harlow’s watch beeped—midnight. The compass needle in the victim’s hand spun wildly, then locked in place, pointing straight at the arch. She took a step toward it. Carter grabbed her arm. "Have you lost your mind?" She shook him off. The air grew colder. Her breath fogged. The symbols on the arch pulsed, just once, like a slow heartbeat. Then the archway was gone. Only the wall remained, solid and unbroken. No shimmer, no carvings. Just peeling paint and the stench of old water. Carter’s grip on her arm tightened. "What the *fuck* was that?" Harlow didn’t answer. She was staring at the compass in the victim’s hand. The needle had stopped moving. It pointed at Carter’s chest. He followed her gaze, then stumbled back. "Oh, come *on*." She reached for her cuffs. Carter’s hand shot to his holster. "Quinn. Don’t." The compass needle twitched. The bone token in Harlow’s pocket grew warm against her thigh. She met his eyes. "You shouldn’t have come back from leave early, Dan." His face twisted. Not fear. *Recognition*. The radio on his belt crackled. A voice, distorted: *"—all units, suspect in custody. Repeat, suspect—"* Carter lunged. Harlow sidestepped, driving her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, but his other hand was already moving—fast, too fast—toward the inside of his jacket. She kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, breath exploding from his lungs. The compass needle spun. Something *laughed* in the dark. Harlow’s fingers closed around her own weapon. "Stay down." Carter’s eyes weren’t his anymore. The pupils had swallowed the irises, black and endless. His mouth stretched too wide as he gasped, *"You don’t understand."* The bone token burned through her pocket. She fired. The shot echoed. Carter’s body jerked, then went still. The compass needle dropped, pointing at the floor. Silence. Harlow didn’t lower her gun. The air smelled like ozone and copper. The symbols on the walls glowed faintly, then faded. She holstered her weapon, knelt beside Carter. His eyes were normal again. Empty. Her torch flickered. The beam landed on his open palm. A second bone token. Identical to hers. Harlow’s watch beeped again. 00:01. Somewhere in the dark, the Veil Market was open for business.