AI Detective Harlow Quinn slammed her fist against the rusted gate, the echo bouncing down the abandoned Tube tunnel like a warning shot. No response. She checked her worn leather watch —three minutes past the anonymous tip's deadline—and kicked the barrier. Metal groaned, swinging inward on hidden hinges.
She stepped through, torch beam cutting through the gloom . Stalls lined the walls, their canvas awnings sagging under dust and forgotten charms. A vendor's cart lay overturned, spilling vials of iridescent liquid that hissed against the cracked tiles. Blood pooled nearby, dark and sticky, mingling with shards of what looked like bone tokens . Quinn crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the mess. No body. Just this carnage in a place that shouldn't exist.
"Detective Quinn?" A voice echoed from the shadows ahead, tentative but familiar . Eva Kowalski emerged, her curly red hair tucked behind her left ear, round glasses fogged from the chill . She clutched a worn leather satchel, books peeking from its flap. "You shouldn't be here. This market... it's not for outsiders."
Quinn straightened, her sharp jaw tightening. Military precision kept her stance steady, but suspicion coiled in her gut. Eva, the researcher from the British Museum, had crossed her path before—always hovering around cases with odd edges, like the one that claimed her partner Morris three years back. "And you are? Last I checked, ancient history degrees don't grant crime scene access."
Eva adjusted her satchel, freckles standing out against her pale skin. "I consult sometimes. For the unusual ones. The tip came through restricted channels—mentioned a rift disturbance. I got here first."
Quinn swept her torch across the scene. The air hummed with an unnatural charge, like static before a storm. She spotted a small brass compass on the ground, its face etched with sigils, needle spinning wildly. She picked it up, careful not to touch the verdigris patina. "Rift disturbance? Cut the occult nonsense, Kowalski. This looks like a robbery gone wrong. Smashed stalls, spilled goods—probably dealers fighting over turf."
Eva shook her head, green eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "Look closer. Those vials aren't drugs. Alchemical essences, banned ones. And that blood? Not human. See the way it shimmers?" She pointed, her voice steady, laced with the clipped precision of her Oxford education. "The Veil Market deals in shadows, Detective. Enchanted items, information from other realms. Someone tore open a portal here, and whatever came through didn't play nice."
Quinn pocketed the compass for evidence, though it felt heavier in her coat, almost alive . She paced the perimeter, boots crunching over debris. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden stretched into darkness, faded posters from the '70s peeling like old skin. A faint scent of ozone lingered, not the usual damp rot of forgotten tunnels. Morris had died in a place like this—unexplained, his body twisted in ways no autopsy could explain. Supernatural origins, the whispers said. She pushed the memory down.
"Portal?" Quinn's tone sharpened, brown eyes locking on Eva. "You expect me to believe that? Evidence says otherwise. Footprints—multiple sets, all leading to that overturned cart. Scuffle marks, but no drag trails. Victim fought back, maybe escaped. And this?" She nodded at a scattered pile of bone tokens, each carved with intricate runes. "Currency for your black market fairy tale? Looks like counterfeit poker chips to me."
Eva knelt beside the blood pool, tucking her hair again—a nervous tic Quinn had noted in prior encounters. "Bone tokens grant entry. They dissolve if you try to fake them. These are real, but shattered . Whatever happened here overloaded the market's wards. The schedule shifts every full moon—this location's fresh, barely settled. Someone knew that. Planned it."
Quinn circled back to the cart, her mind mapping discrepancies. The blood did shimmer, faint blue veins pulsing beneath the surface. Not coagulating like human blood should. She prodded a vial with her boot; it rolled, releasing a puff of smoke that formed fleeting shapes—faces? No, illusion from fatigue. Eighteen years on the force, decorated service, and now this researcher peddled ghost stories.
"Alright, play along," Quinn said, crossing her arms. "If it's your supernatural rift, where's the body? No corpse, no crime—yet. But the tip mentioned a murder. Anonymous caller, voice distorted, said 'the market's bleeding.' Sounds like a rival tipping off a hit."
Eva stood, brushing dust from her knees. "The body might not be here. Rifts don't just spill blood—they consume. Pull things through. That compass you picked up? Veil Compass. Points to the nearest supernatural tear. If it's spinning, the portal's unstable. Active."
Quinn pulled out the compass again. The needle whirled, then jerked toward a shadowed alcove. She followed its pull, Eva trailing. The alcove hid a makeshift stall, curtains torn, shelves emptied. A ledger lay open, pages ripped, but one entry caught her eye: "Shade artisan delivery—compass attuned. Buyer: A. Blackwood ." Initials only. Sloppy.
"Something came through," Eva murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper , cultural lilt from her Polish roots slipping in—words like "came" carrying a faint roll. "Not a robbery. An incursion. Shades from the other side—they craft items like that compass, but they don't cross willingly. Unless summoned."
Quinn flipped through the ledger, pages whispering secrets. Dates matched lunar cycles, locations shifting: beneath Soho last month, now Camden. Patterns. Her partner Morris had chased a similar lead—whispers of underground markets, then vanished in a tunnel collapse that wasn't natural. Autopsy showed internal ruptures, like something had pulled him apart from inside.
She froze. A faint scratching echoed from the alcove's rear wall, like nails on tile. The compass needle steadied, pointing straight at it. Quinn pressed her ear to the cold stone—whispers? No, breathing. Laboured.
"Stand back," Quinn ordered, drawing her sidearm. Eva complied, satchel clutched tight.
Quinn shoved at a loose panel. It gave way, revealing a hidden nook. A figure huddled there, cloaked in shadows, chest heaving. Male, mid-thirties, clothes torn, skin marked with glowing sigils that pulsed like the blood outside. He looked up, eyes wild, not quite human—irises slitted, like a cat's .
"Help," he rasped, voice echoing unnaturally . "It took... the others. Through the veil."
Quinn lowered her weapon a fraction. Not a victim—survivor? But the sigils on his skin matched the compass etchings. Shade artisan, Eva had said. Crafted by one? Or one himself?
Eva gasped, stepping forward. "He's crossing over. Unstable. The rift's in him."
The man convulsed, sigils flaring brighter. Cracks appeared in the air around him, like glass shattering in slow motion. Reality bent, pulling at Quinn's coat, the compass burning hot in her pocket.
"Get out!" the man screamed, his form flickering . "It's coming back!"
Quinn grabbed Eva's arm, yanking her away as the alcove erupted in shadow. Tendrils lashed out, cold and grasping, wrapping around the man's legs. He clawed at the ground, nails scraping bloody trails.
The rift widened, a maw of darkness swallowing light. Quinn's torch beam vanished into it, illuminating glimpses of twisted shapes beyond—eyes, too many eyes.
Eva shouted, "The compass—use it to seal—"
But a tendril whipped forward, slamming into Quinn's chest, ice flooding her veins. Visions flashed: Morris, screaming in a similar void, pulled apart by unseen forces.
She staggered, firing blindly into the dark. The shot echoed , but the shadows laughed, hungry and closing in.