Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7JPCQGDJXEZSD7ZS67KQ8

Detective Harlow Quinn flashed her badge at the uniform guarding the chain-link fence. Rust flaked from the metal as she shoved through. Her boots crunched over shattered tiles, echoing down the abandoned Tube platform beneath Camden. Floodlights hummed overhead, casting jagged shadows across faded posters advertising ghost trains long scrapped. The air reeked of damp stone and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. She spotted the body first. Sprawled amid overturned crates stamped with unreadable sigils, a man in a threadbare cloak lay face-up. His chest gaped with three precise slashes, ribs splayed like broken fingers. No blood pooled beneath him. None at all. Quinn's brown eyes narrowed. She circled the corpse, salt-and-pepper hair brushing her sharp jaw. Eva Kowalski knelt nearby, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. Curly red hair escaped her ponytail, one strand tucked behind her left ear. Her worn leather satchel slumped open, spilling dog-eared books onto the grimy floor. She traced a chalk outline with a gloved finger. Quinn crouched beside her. "Kowalski. You called this in?" Eva glanced up, green eyes sharp behind lenses. "Found him an hour ago. Market was thinning out—full moon chase coming. Thought you'd want first look before the clean-up crew." Quinn's gaze flicked to the stalls half-hidden in the gloom. Velvet drapes hung limp over booths peddling jars of glowing sludge and amulets that hummed faintly. A sign in looping script read "Echo Whispers—Fates Foreseen." The Veil Market. Whispers of it had crossed her desk for months, tied to that clique she tracked—Aurora and her lot. Bone token in her pocket burned from the fixer who'd sold it cheap. Cost her a favor she regretted. "What killed him?" Quinn prodded the man's cloak with her pen. Fabric parted to reveal tattoos coiling like smoke across his arms. Eva rose, dusting grit from her jeans. "Stabs don't match. Look at the angles—too clean, from above. Killer taller than average, right-handed. But no spatter. No drag marks." Quinn nodded, military precision snapping her posture straight. Her worn leather watch caught the light. Tick. Tick. She scanned the platform. Tiles cracked where stalls butted against walls, forcing the tracks into oblivion. A brass compass lay inches from the body's hand, face etched with sigils, verdigris patina gleaming sickly. Needle spun lazy circles, refusing north. "Suicide?" Quinn lifted the compass by its chain. Cool metal bit her fingers. Needle jerked toward the body, then whipped away. Eva snorted, pushing glasses up. "Not with those wounds. Self-inflicted from that height? Physics says no. Check his eyes—frosted over, like hypothermic shock. But ambient temp's steady at 12 degrees." Quinn leaned close to the corpse. Pupils dilated black, veins spiderwebbed silver beneath pale skin. No rigor yet, limbs lax. Time of death pegged at midnight by the first responders' log. She checked her watch: 2:17 a.m. Two hours. Plenty for blood to congeal. Yet the slashes wept clear fluid, viscous as sap. Footsteps clattered from the tunnel mouth. Sergeant Patel emerged, younger face slick with sweat. "Detective Quinn. Forensics en route. Locals say he hawked potions—'Veil trader.' Robbery gone wrong, yeah?" Quinn ignored him, pocketing the compass. Needle thrummed against her thigh. "Patel, bag those crates. Anything irreplaceable?" He shrugged. "Mostly junk. Glowing rocks, herbs that smell like cat piss." Eva shot him a look. "Not junk. That's nightshade root, banned since the '89 accords. And those jars—ectoplasm distillate. Black market staples." Patel rolled his eyes. "Occult bollocks. Bloke probably pissed off a rival dealer. Stabbed in a deal gone south." Quinn straightened, eyes tracing the platform's edge. Rails vanished into black tunnels, but faint scratches marred the concrete lip—claw-like, spaced wide. Not human. She knelt again, peering under a toppled stall. Dust swirled. A glint: bone token, identical to hers, snapped in half. Fresh break, ivory fibers stark white. "Deal gone south doesn't explain no blood." Quinn held up the token fragment. "Victim clutching this?" Eva peered closer. "Half a key. Veil entry's paired—lose one, lock jams. He crossed someone big." Patel crossed his arms. "Or he faked it for insurance. Bodies staged clean sometimes." Quinn's jaw tightened. Three years since DS Morris vanished on a case like this—routine raid turned nightmare. Unexplained fog, screams from nowhere. Brass called it heart attack. She knew better. Supernatural whiff clung to unsolved files piling on her desk. This clique, Aurora's circle, danced at the edges. She paced the body, boots scuffing sigils chalked into tiles. Circle incomplete, one arc smeared. Candle stubs ringed it, wax pooled cold. "Ritual site?" Eva nodded fast, tucking hair again. "Half-assed invocation. Words in Old Norse—summoning shade. Botched. Energy backlash could've shredded him." Patel barked a laugh. "Shades? Fairy tales for tourists. Coroner's report'll show blade wounds, toxicology positive for whatever he peddled." Quinn stopped. Needle in her pocket spun wild now, tugging left—toward the tunnel. She followed its pull, flashlight beam slicing darkness. Rails gleamed slick, not with water. Frost rimed the metal, crystals spiking unnatural. Air chilled her breath visible. "Patel, temp readings here." He checked his handheld. "Bloody hell. Dropping to zero. Must be a vent." No vents marked the map she'd memorized. Quinn knelt by the frost. Tiny punctures dotted the rail—sucked clean, like mouthparts. She scraped a sample into a vial. Silver flecks swirled. Back at the body, she crouched. Slashes aligned with claw spacing on the platform edge. No blade nicks on bones. Edges cauterized, fused neat. Her mind clicked pieces. No blood loss explained frost—drained, not spilled. Eyes silver-veined from whatever sucked it out. "Look." Quinn pointed to the man's hand. Fingernails split, embedded with rail grime. Defensive posture wrong—arms up, but palms out, pushing nothing. Eva leaned in. "He clawed at air. Pulled into a rift." Patel scoffed. "Rift? You're both mental." Quinn shot him silence. Compass needle locked now, quivering toward the tunnel frost. Victim's tattoos pulsed faint under light—sigils matching the compass face. Protective wards, etched amateur. Failed against what? She reconstructed. Man sets up ritual at midnight, market peak. Botches shade summon. Rift cracks open—not full portal, tear. Entity slips through, drains him dry. No blood left to spill. Body dropped back, staged as stabbing. Claws match slashes. Frost trail leads to exit point. Token snapped in panic—sealed the tear half-perfected. But why half-token? Intentional lure? Clique bait. Eva whispered. "Veil Compass beside him. Points rifts. He tracked one here, thinking profit." Quinn gripped it tighter. Needle burned cold. Others missed the frost, the drain marks, sigil backlash glow fading on tiles. Patel saw turf war. Eva glimpsed occult truth. Quinn saw the gap: murder mimicked, but entity fled incomplete. Hunt just started. Patel radioed up. "Sarge, need backup. This place gives me the creeps." Quinn pocketed the token half. Tunnel called. Compass tugged insistent. Eva stood shoulder-to-shoulder. "Quinn, that rift—it's stabilizing. Feel the hum?" She did. Low vibration rattled her watch. Military bearing locked her stance. Evidence screamed wrongness. No human killer left this. Partner's ghost whispered confirmation. "Seal the tunnel. Kowalski, map those sigils. Patel, get that body to the Slab—rush autopsy, check for vacuum punctures." Patel hesitated. "Detective—" "Now." Her voice cut steel. He hustled off. Eva pulled a notebook, sketching fast. Quinn faced the tunnel. Frost crept outward, inching toward the platform. Needle spun once more—pointing dead at her feet. She froze. Beneath the body, tiles shifted. A hairline crack breathed cold fog. Missed it. Rift base right here, disguised. Victim hadn't summoned it. Someone fed him to it. Clique's trail burned hot. She dropped to knees, prying a tile. Fog billowed, carrying whispers. Morris's voice? No. Laughter, faint and wet. Compass shattered in her fist. Brass shards bit deep. Blood welled—real blood, pattering red. Eva gasped. "Quinn—" "Quiet." She smeared blood on the crack. Fog recoiled. Patel yelled from afar. "Forensics here!" Too late for normal. Quinn saw it now: trap sprung, rift hungry. Others chased ghosts. She chased the pull. Tile popped free. Below, void swirled black, needle shards orbiting like stars. A hand—pale, clawed—brushed the edge. Quinn slammed the tile back. Heart hammered. Evidence piled: drain, frost, botch sigils, compass lure. Colleague spun occult yarn. Uniforms saw street crime. Truth hid in the hum. Rift waited for more. Eva gripped her arm. "We close it?" Quinn nodded once. Watch ticked louder. Military precision met the veil's edge. Deduction sharpened to blade. They missed nothing now. She wouldn't. Fog licked her boots. Claw scraped below. She drew her sidearm.