AI Detective Harlow Quinn shoved through the rusted access grate, her boots splashing into ankle-deep water that reeked of stagnant oil and forgotten magic. The air hummed with that unnatural vibration she had come to recognise from her last botched case, the one that claimed Morris.
She gripped her torch tighter, sweeping its beam across the arched ceiling of the abandoned Tube station. Shadows danced like conspirators, and up ahead, uniformed officers milled about with clipboards and evidence bags, their faces pale under the emergency floodlights. One of them nodded to her, but Quinn ignored him. She had spotted the body already, slumped against a vendor's stall draped in tattered velvet .
"Detective Quinn," a familiar voice called out . Eva Kowalski pushed through the cordon tape, her curly red hair escaping its hasty bun, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. She clutched a worn leather satchel bulging with books, tucking a stray lock behind her left ear—a nervous tic Quinn had noted during their previous encounters. "They called me in as consultant. Restricted archives access, you know. This place... it's not on any official maps."
Quinn's sharp jaw tightened. Eva, the occult researcher from the British Museum, always turned up at these scenes like a bad penny. Childhood friend to that suspiciously well-connected Aurora woman, part of the clique Quinn had been watching. But Eva's expertise on ancient history had proven useful before, even if it grated. "Spare me the preamble, Evie. What are we looking at?"
Eva adjusted her glasses, glancing at the body—a middle-aged man in a threadbare coat, his skin mottled with unnatural veins that glowed faintly blue. "Victim's a Shade artisan, from the looks of it. Crafts enchanted items. See the tattoos on his wrists? Protective sigils, but they've been inverted. Turned against him."
Quinn knelt beside the corpse, her worn leather watch catching the light as she examined the man's hands. No defensive wounds, but his fingers clutched a small brass object, its face etched with sigils and a patina of verdigris. A compass. She pried it free, careful not to touch the needle, which quivered erratically. "Cause of death?"
"Exsanguination, but not from any visible wound." Eva pointed to the floor, where a pool of blood had congealed into impossible patterns, like runes drawn by an invisible hand. "Blood drained internally, organs liquefied. Classic sign of a rift backlash. This is The Veil Market, after all. It moves every full moon, but someone anchored it here tonight."
Quinn stood, pocketing the compass for now. She paced the stall, her military bearing evident in each precise step. The market's remnants surrounded them: overturned crates of glowing herbs, shattered vials of what smelled like banned alchemical substances , and whispers of information traded in the shadows. An unusual location for a crime scene, hidden beneath Camden's bustling streets, accessible only with a bone token. Quinn had "borrowed" one from evidence lockup after tailing a suspect last month. Something about this setup screamed wrongness. The evidence didn't add up—no signs of struggle, no witnesses, yet the body positioned like a warning.
One of the officers approached, a young constable with a notebook. "Ma'am, we swept the area. No prints, no CCTV down here. Looks like a deal gone bad. Market's full of dodgy types."
"Dismissed," Quinn snapped. She turned back to Eva. "You said rift backlash. Explain."
Eva opened her satchel, pulling out a battered tome bound in what looked like scaled leather . She flipped to a marked page, her green eyes scanning the text. "Supernatural rifts are doorways between realms. Unstable ones can suck the life out of you if you're not careful. But look here." She gestured to the blood runes. "These aren't random. They're a summoning circle, inverted like the tattoos. Someone weaponised the rift, turned it on him deliberately ."
Quinn's brown eyes narrowed . Eva's interpretation leaned too heavily on the occult mumbo-jumbo, the kind that had gotten Morris killed three years ago. Unexplained circumstances, the report said. Supernatural origins she didn't yet understand—but she would. "Or it's staged to look that way. A mundane murder dressed up in fairy tales to throw us off."
Eva tucked her hair again, a flicker of frustration crossing her freckled face. "Harlow, you've seen enough of these to know it's not mundane. Remember the case in Soho? The shadows that moved on their own? This market sells information, enchanted goods. He was probably trading secrets, and someone didn't want them out."
Quinn circled the body again, her torch beam catching on a nearby stall's remnants. Shards of glass crunched underfoot, releasing a faint, acrid scent—like burnt ozone mixed with herbs. She picked up a fragment of vial, noting the residue: a viscous purple liquid that shimmered unnaturally. "If it's a rift, where's the portal? No scorch marks, no residual energy. Just a dead artisan and some fancy blood art."
"That's what bothers me," Eva admitted, her voice dropping . She glanced around, as if the shadows listened. "The Veil Market requires a bone token to enter. How did the killer get in without one? And why leave the body here, where it would draw attention?"
Quinn felt the compass in her pocket twitch. She pulled it out, watching the needle spin wildly before settling northward—towards a sealed-off tunnel entrance. Odd. Compasses didn't work this deep underground, not normal ones. This one pointed with purpose. "Your book mention anything about a 'Veil Compass'?"
Eva's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Yes! Attuned to supernatural energy, points to the nearest rift or portal. Crafted by Shade artisans, like our victim here. If it's reacting..."
Quinn strode towards the tunnel, ignoring the officers' puzzled looks. Eva hurried after her, satchel slapping against her hip. The transition from the main platform to the narrower passage brought a shift in atmosphere—the air grew thicker, laced with a metallic tang that stung Quinn's nostrils. Graffiti covered the walls, but not the usual tags; these were sigils, glowing faintly as if freshly etched .
"Slow down," Eva said. "If there's an active rift, we need wards."
Quinn didn't break stride. "Your wards didn't save Morris."
Eva faltered, then caught up. "That was different. You still blame yourself, don't you? The unexplained circumstances—"
"Save the psychoanalysis." Quinn's voice cut sharp. The compass needle steadied, pointing straight ahead. She reached the tunnel's end, a bricked-up wall that looked solid but felt wrong. Too new, the mortar still damp. She pressed her palm against it, and a low hum vibrated through her bones.
Eva peered over her shoulder. "See? Not mundane. This wall's a glamour. The killer must have sealed the rift behind them."
Quinn traced the bricks, her fingers finding a hairline crack that pulsed with energy. Evidence not adding up: a murder in a market that shouldn't exist, a body drained without wounds, and now a hidden portal. Eva saw supernatural foul play, but Quinn's instincts screamed human involvement. Someone in her clique, perhaps, covering tracks. She had tailed Aurora and her friends to similar spots before.
"Stand back." Quinn drew her service weapon, though she knew bullets meant nothing against this. She wedged her fingers into the crack and pulled. The wall shimmered , then parted like mist, revealing a chamber beyond. Stale air rushed out, carrying the scent of decay and something sweeter, like incense.
Inside, the space opened into a makeshift altar room, lit by floating orbs of ethereal light. At the centre, a rift swirled—a tear in reality, purple and black tendrils writhing like living smoke. Scattered around it: more bone tokens, a scattering of documents, and a figure hunched over what looked like a ritual circle .
The figure turned, hood falling back to reveal a face Quinn recognised from her files—one of Aurora's associates, a low-level informant. His hands dripped with the same blue-veined glow as the victim's.
"Detective," he rasped, lips curling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You found the back door."
Eva gasped, tucking her hair frantically. "That's not possible. The rift should've closed—"
Quinn raised her weapon. "Hands up. You're under arrest for—"
The man laughed, a sound that echoed unnaturally. He thrust his palm forward, and the rift surged, tendrils lashing out like whips. One struck the ground near Quinn's feet, splintering tile. Another grazed Eva's arm, drawing a hiss of pain.
Quinn fired, but the bullet dissolved mid-air, absorbed by the energy. The compass in her pocket burned hot, needle spinning madly.
"Welcome to the real market," the man said, stepping into the rift. "Tell Aurora we're even."
The portal expanded, pulling at the air, dragging debris towards it. Quinn grabbed Eva's collar, yanking her back as the chamber began to collapse, bricks crumbling into the void. The tendrils reached for them now, hungry and alive.