Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83ZEC4A5B537QZYWEX39S

The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden exhaled damp, stale air as Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the jagged remnants of a collapsed concrete slab. Her boots—polished black leather, scuffed at the toes from years of wear—made little sound on the uneven floor, the sound swallowed by the hum of unseen pipes and the distant drip of water. The station’s name, *Camden Road*, was barely visible on the peeling sign above the entrance, its letters faded to nothing but suggestion. This wasn’t a place meant to be seen. It was a place meant to be *found*. Eva Kowalski stood near the far wall, her round glasses reflecting the dim glow of a flickering LED strip strung along the ceiling. She tucked a curl of red hair behind her left ear, a nervous habit Quinn had learned to recognize. Eva’s satchel was slung over one shoulder, its leather worn smooth from years of use. She didn’t look up as Quinn approached, her fingers tracing the edge of a small, brass-bound notebook. “You’re late,” Eva said, her voice low. “The forensics team left an hour ago.” Quinn exhaled through her nose, a sound that was equal parts frustration and amusement. “And you’re still here.” “Someone had to make sure they didn’t miss anything.” Quinn’s sharp jaw tightened. She knew why Eva was here. The case had been marked *high priority* the moment the body was found—an undercover cop, gutted like a fish, his uniform torn away to reveal the sigils carved into his ribs. But the real reason Eva was lingering was the same reason Quinn had come: the evidence didn’t make sense. She crouched beside the body, her gloved hands hovering just above the cold, still flesh. The man—DS Morris, her partner—had been dead for three days, but the rigor had set in too quickly, the decomposition stunted. Unnatural. The coroner’s report would say it was due to exposure, but Quinn had seen enough to know better. The air here was thick with something else, something *wrong*. “You think it’s the same thing as last time,” Eva murmured, following her gaze. Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Eva had been digging into the same leads she had—occult circles, forbidden texts, the kind of things that made the Metropolitan Police’s higher-ups nervous. The Veil Market, they called it. A place that didn’t exist on any map, but where things did. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the Veil Compass, its brass casing cold against her palm. The needle spun lazily before settling, pointing not at the body, but at the far corner of the station, where the walls seemed to breathe in the dark. A rift, maybe. Or something worse. “You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice said from behind them. Quinn turned. Detective Rourke stood in the doorway, his face a mask of professional concern, though his eyes flickered with something else—distrust, maybe, or fear. He was the senior investigator on the case, the one who had called it in. The one who had *known* about the sigils before the body was even found. “And you’re not supposed to be letting civilians wander around crime scenes,” Quinn replied, her voice smooth, her tone unyielding. Rourke’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t a civilian. She’s part of the task force.” Eva scoffed, but Quinn didn’t look at her. She knew Rourke was lying. Eva wasn’t on any official task force. She wasn’t even *supposed* to be here. “Then why is she the one who found the body?” Quinn asked. Rourke hesitated. “She was… assisting.” “Assisting how?” Rourke’s eyes darted to the body, then back to Quinn. “She’s an expert in occult texts. We thought she might recognize something.” Quinn’s fingers tightened around the Veil Compass. She knew what Rourke wasn’t saying. Eva had found the body because she had been *looking* for it. Because she had been digging into the same things Quinn had been. “You’re hiding something,” Quinn said. Rourke’s expression darkened. “I’m hiding nothing.” “Then explain this.” Quinn gestured to the body. “Morris wasn’t just killed. He was *marked*. And not by some street gang or cult. These sigils—” she traced a finger over the carved lines on Morris’s ribs—“they’re not just symbols. They’re a *language*. And they’re pointing somewhere.” Eva finally looked up, her green eyes sharp behind her glasses. “The Veil Market.” Quinn’s gaze snapped to her. “You knew.” Eva shrugged. “I suspected. But this—” she gestured to the body—“this is different. This is *personal*.” Rourke stepped forward, his voice low. “You’re both off the case.” Quinn didn’t move. “I’m not taking orders from you, Rourke. Not after what happened last time.” Rourke’s face paled. He knew. He had to. The last case—the one that had gotten Morris killed—had been buried. But Quinn hadn’t forgotten. She had seen the way the evidence had been *altered*. She had seen the way the higher-ups had looked when she had asked too many questions. “You’re playing with fire,” Rourke warned. Quinn met his gaze. “I’ve been playing with fire for years. And I’m not stopping now.” She turned back to the body, her mind already racing. The sigils on Morris’s ribs weren’t just markings. They were coordinates. And if she followed them, she might find out who had really killed her partner. Eva was already moving, her satchel slung over her shoulder as she stepped closer to the rift in the wall—the one the Veil Compass was pointing to. The air around it shimmered, warped, like heat rising from pavement. Something was on the other side. Something that wanted to be found. Quinn holstered her pistol and pulled out the compass again. The needle spun once more, then settled. Straight ahead. “You coming?” Eva asked, her voice barely audible over the hum of the station. Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. She was already moving.