Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY81PBJT4AXEEE215ZMBY79

The air tasted of dust and something metallic, old pennies and regret. Harlow Quinn descended the slick, concrete steps, each footfall echoing into the cavernous space. Camden Town above, a thrum of Saturday night revelry, felt miles away. This was another world, layered beneath the everyday. The Veil Market. She hated coming down here. The abandoned tube station reeked of damp and forgotten things. Fluorescent lights, rigged to a generator humming somewhere in the tunnels, cast a sickly yellow glow on the scene. A cluster of figures huddled near the center of the platform—uniformed officers attempting to look professional amidst the grime. Detective Inspector Davies, a man built like a disappointed bulldog, spotted her and waved a dismissive hand. “Quinn. Glad you could make it.” Harlow didn't return the gesture. She moved toward the body, her gaze already cataloging the discrepancies. A man, mid-thirties, sprawled on the disused tracks. Expensive suit, Italian leather shoes. Looked like a City type. A single, precise wound marred the crisp white of his shirt. “Clean,” she observed, not to Davies, but to the space around her. “Too clean.” “Knife work,” Davies offered, his voice booming. “Professional. Likely a dispute over goods. This market attracts all sorts.” Harlow crouched, ignoring the protesting creak of her knees. The victim’s hands were empty, palms up, as if in supplication. No defensive wounds. Odd. And the blood. It wasn’t pooling naturally. It looked…thin. Almost watery. She touched the edge of the stain with a gloved finger, then brought it close to her nose. A faint coppery scent, yes, but underneath…something else. Something she couldn’t quite place. “He wasn’t robbed,” she stated, rising. “Wallet’s still there, watch untouched.” A worn leather watch, she noted, similar to the one she wore herself. A small detail, but details mattered. “Maybe it wasn't about money, then.” Davies shrugged, already dismissing her line of thought. “Could be a personal vendetta. We’re running his details now.” “Or,” Harlow countered, her voice a low rasp, “maybe it wasn't a person at all.” Davies snorted. “Oh, here we go. You and your…theories.” "Observe, Davies." She swept her hand across the scene. “Look at the lack of struggle. The precise wound. The unusual blood. And this." She gestured to a small, circular marking on the floor near the victim’s head. It wasn’t a scuff mark. It was…burned. A perfect circle, as if something had been placed there and removed. “Probably just some gang graffiti.” “Graffiti that radiates a faint chill?” Harlow asked, leaning closer. She could feel it now, a subtle drop in temperature. “Graffiti that smells faintly of ozone?" A young officer, pale-faced and clutching a notepad, piped up. “I thought I felt a draft, sir.” Davies glared at him. “You’re feeling the ventilation, Perkins. Now, find something useful to do.” Harlow continued her assessment, her eyes scanning the cavernous station. The Market vendors had already been cleared out, but traces remained. Stalls hastily dismantled, the lingering scent of incense and something acrid, like burnt sugar. She spotted Eva Kowalski near the edge of the platform, fiddling with the strap of her satchel and nervously tucking a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. Eva, bless her, didn’t flinch at Davies’s gruffness. She'd spent enough time researching the occult underbelly of London to develop a healthy disregard for skeptical authority figures. “Find anything interesting?” Harlow asked, moving towards her. Eva adjusted her round glasses. "The residue on the floor. It’s… unusual. I ran a preliminary scan with a spectrometer—it’s picking up traces of bismuth and sulfur. Also, a faint energy signature. Not electrical. Older.” “Older how?” “Think… alchemical,” Eva said, her voice barely a whisper. “Something involving binding. Or… warding.” Harlow’s gaze returned to the burned circle. “Warding? Against what?” “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Eva pulled a small brass compass from her satchel. A patina of verdigris covered the casing. The face was etched with strange, protective sigils. “I brought the Veil Compass. Just in case.” The needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing towards a section of the tunnel wall. “Well, that’s… ominous.” Davies huffed, approaching them. “What’s this now? Some sort of fancy toy?” “It’s attuned to supernatural energy, Inspector,” Eva explained patiently. “It points towards rifts or portals.” “Rifts? Portals? You're suggesting our victim was attacked by… what, a ghost?" “I’m suggesting we shouldn't dismiss possibilities simply because they're unconventional,” Harlow said, her voice sharp. “The evidence doesn't support a conventional explanation.” She walked towards the wall the compass indicated, her hand brushing against the cool, damp stone. The air here felt…thicker. Heavy. She ran her fingers along the surface, searching for anything out of the ordinary. A loose brick. A hidden switch. “There’s something behind this wall,” she murmured. “I can feel it.” “Don’t start tearing down a historical landmark, Quinn,” Davies warned. Harlow ignored him. She braced herself and pushed. The brick gave way with a groan, revealing a narrow opening, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through. A gust of cold air rushed out, carrying with it a scent that made her stomach clench – the metallic tang of blood, magnified tenfold, mixed with the cloying sweetness of decay. “What did I tell you?” she said, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the opening. “It wasn’t a person.”