Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7JDE7TR4GCJB7PEW979PB

Detective Harlow Quinn's worn leather watch ticked against her wrist as she descended the rusted metal stairs into the abyss beneath Camden. The air thickened with the stench of damp stone and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. Her flashlight beam sliced through the gloom, catching graffiti-smeared tiles and the skeletal remains of a platform long abandoned by the Tube. But this wasn't just any forgotten station. The Veil Market had bloomed here last full moon, peddling its forbidden wares to those who knew the right token. Quinn's sharp jaw tightened; she'd palmed a bone key from a jittery informant two nights back. Supernatural black market or not, murder didn't care about realms. Uniformed constables milled at the cordoned-off end of the platform, their faces pale under the harsh portable lights. Forensics techs in white suits buzzed like flies over a sprawled figure amid shattered crates. Quinn's military bearing cut through them as she ducked under the tape, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair unmussed by the descent. Eighteen years on the force had drilled precision into her bones; she scanned the scene with brown eyes that missed nothing. "Eva," she said, spotting the curly redhead crouched near the body. Eva Kowalski pushed her round glasses up her freckled nose, tucking a stray lock behind her left ear—a nervous tic Quinn had clocked years ago, back when the researcher had first crossed her path consulting on "weird cases." "Detective Quinn," Eva replied, voice steady but eyes wide. Her worn leather satchel slumped beside her, books peeking from the flap. "I found him like this an hour ago. Came for research—Veil Market's got leads on rifts. He's Milo, Shade artisan. Crafts these." She nodded at a brass casing glinting in the debris, verdigris-patinaed and etched with sigils that twisted Quinn's gut. A Veil Compass, half-assembled. The needle lay still, but Quinn knew its trick: it pointed to supernatural breaches. Quinn knelt, gloved hands hovering over the corpse. Milo—or what was left—sprawled face-down, gray skin mottled unnaturally, like marble cracked by frost. No blood pool, just faint frost-rimed slits across his throat and chest, precise as scalpel work. Cause of death? Exsanguination, maybe, but the wounds wept a silvery ichor that forensics was scraping into vials. No weapon nearby. Crates of half-finished compasses and vials of glowing sludge lay toppled, but nothing screamed robbery—valuables untouched. "First impression?" Quinn asked, not looking up. Her voice carried the clipped authority of command. Eva hesitated, glancing at the hovering sergeant—a lanky kid named Patel, her ostensible "colleague" tonight, pulled from night shift. "Robbery gone south. Buyer got greedy, slit his throat with one of his own tools. Market's rough; Shades don't play by human rules." Patel nodded eagerly from his notepad. "Agreed, ma'am. No CCTV down here, but witnesses scarpered when we arrived. Footprints lead to the east tunnel, then vanish—probably scarpered through a service door. Toxicology on the ichor pending, but looks like a blade job. Clean, professional." Quinn's watch hand itched; it was 2:17 AM. She rose, boots crunching glass phials, and paced the stall's perimeter. Military precision guided her: observe, catalog, contradict. The frost on Milo's wounds gleamed under her light, unnatural in the clammy air. No spatter pattern—blood should arc if slashed mid-struggle. And those footprints Patel mentioned: scuffed earth trailing east, yes, but ending abruptly at a blank tile wall. No door, no grate. She traced the sigils on the wall—faint, glowing faintly blue. Protective wards? Her partner's death flashed: DS Morris, gutted in an alley with wounds that defied physics, whispers of "portals" in his final report. Dismissed as delusion. Not by her. "Something's off," Quinn muttered, brown eyes narrowing. She crouched again, peering at Milo's left hand—clenched, nails chipped black. Residue flecked his palm: verdigris powder, matching the compass casings. Defensive wound? No. She pried open his fingers gently; inside, a shard of brass needle, snapped clean. The killer took the full compass. But why leave this? Eva shifted, satchel creaking. "Quinn, listen. Milo wasn't human. Shade—shadow-folk, attuned to rifts. Those slits? Not blades. Rift-tears. Something pulled him through a breach mid-fight. Compass was charging; it draws energy from portals. Buyer argues price, Milo activates it, boom—dimensional snag. Ichors from the other side. Explains the frost; rifts chill the veil." Patel snorted softly. "Occult bollocks, Kowalski. We've got prints, struggle signs. Occam's razor: thief stabs, grabs loot, bolts." Quinn ignored him, mind whirring. Eva's theory itched—too neat, too supernatural. But evidence piled against the mundane. She shone her light on the footprints again: size 10, heavy tread, ending at the wall. No smudge of exit, no hidden latch. She pressed the tiles—solid. Back to the body: throat slits formed a perfect arc, three inches apart, edges cauterized like plasma cuts. Human blade? No char. And the air—ozone lingered heaviest here, strongest at the wall. "Patel, bag those footprints in plaster. And the wall—every inch, luminol it." She straightened, turning to Eva. "You said Milo crafts these. How's it work, exactly?" Eva tucked hair behind her ear again, green eyes flicking to her satchel. "Needle spins to nearest rift or portal. Sigils stabilize it—protect from feedback. Milo's stall specializes; he etched the faces himself. I bought one last moon—tracks anomalies for my archives work." Quinn's jaw sharpened. Archives at the British Museum—restricted section. Eva's Oxford polish hid deeper dives into the occult, ties to that clique Quinn had tailed: Aurora Voss and her merry band of rift-chasers. Suspects in half a dozen "vanishings." "Show me yours." Eva rummaged, producing her own Veil Compass—identical brass, patina gleaming. Quinn snatched it, flicking the lid. The needle quivered, then snapped east—toward the blank wall. Ozone spiked; the sigils on the wall pulsed brighter. "See?" Eva pressed. "Rift residue. Thief didn't run; they ported out. Market moves next full moon, but echoes linger." Patel cleared his throat. "Ma'am, with respect—compass could be faulty. Prints are real. We drag the tunnel, find the perp." Quinn held up a hand, silencing him. Deduction crystallized: mundane robbery demanded mess—blood trails, dropped loot, panic. Here, precision ruled. Frost wounds matched rift lore she'd buried after Morris: "cold edges, no exit." Footprints ended because the killer stepped through. But the shard in Milo's hand—Quinn examined it closer under light. Micro-etchings: not protective sigils, but inversions. Disruptors. Milo hadn't summoned the rift; he'd tried to close one. "Wrong," she said flatly. "Not robbery. Not thief-porting." She pocketed the needle shard, mind mapping vectors. Killer approached from stall rear—no prints there, air thickest. Milo grabs disruptor shard to seal breach. Struggle rends him—slits from claws or edges protruding the veil. Killer emerges fully, snatches charged compass, retreats same way. No human boots on exit; the approaching prints were bait, or decoy. Eva frowned. "What then? Shade vendetta?" Quinn's watch ticked 2:23. She leveled her gaze at the researcher. "Staged. Killer knew we'd find this—prints to tunnel, compass half-done to scream 'market hit.' But frost cauterizes; no bleed-out time for portal escape. And this." She tapped the wall sigils, now fading. "Wards intact—no breach. Killer was already here, human height prints. Pulled Milo into a pocket rift, did the work inside, dumped body back. Compass taken to track more—our rifts." Patel's notepad drooped. "Pocket rift? That's..." "Fantasy," Quinn cut in, voice steel. "But evidence isn't. Morris died like this—dumped, wounds cold-sealed. Clique like yours, Kowalski, chase these tears. One of yours closes them sloppy, artisan spots, gets silenced. Compass points to the next." Eva's freckles blanched. "That's a leap. I research, not—" "Save it." Quinn spun to the uniforms. "Seal the east tunnel—no one in or out. Forensics: prioritize ichor spectrography, match to known anomalies. Patel, canvass Market ghosts—anyone see a redhead with a satchel?" Her eyes locked on Eva, probing. Eva met them steadily, but her hand twitched toward her ear. "Quinn, you're chasing shadows. This is Veil business." Quinn's lips thinned. "Shadows bleed silver. And they leave prints that lie." She glanced at Eva's compass, needle steady now. Wrong, it whispered. Something watched from the walls, rift-wind ghosting her neck. The Market held secrets, but Quinn's precision would carve them out—one deduction at a time. The techs murmured as she stepped back, cataloging: no weapon because claws sufficed; no spatter because vacuum-sealed kill; footprints decoy to misdirect from the true entry—a shimmer she'd glimpsed earlier, air warping like heat haze. She'd need UV on the walls, rift-tracers if brass had them. Morris's file burned in her mind—supernatural, unexplained. Not anymore. "Double the guard," she ordered. "This scene's live." The ozone hummed approval, or warning. Quinn didn't flinch. Eighteen years, and the veil was cracking. She'd stitch it shut, starting here. Word count edged past as she circled once more, spotting the miss: Milo's watch—stopped at 1:47, face spiderwebbed. Hers ticked on. Time bent in rifts. Colleague Patel logged it mundane; Eva spun occult. Quinn saw truth: murder across veils, compass the key. The clique's trail ran cold no more.