AI Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs into the bowels of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist as she gripped the railing, flashlight beam cutting through the damp gloom . The air thickened with the scent of mold and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. Footsteps echoed ahead, sharp and deliberate, not the shuffle of uniforms she'd expected.
She pushed through a chain-link barrier, warped as if something heavy had rammed it aside. The platform stretched out, littered with crates stamped in languages she didn't recognize—runes, maybe, or just faded export marks. Shadows clung to the walls, where flickering lanterns hung from hooks, their flames unnaturally steady. This wasn't just any derelict station; whispers in the precinct had called it the Veil Market, a myth for occult nuts. But bodies didn't lie, and the report on her phone described one: male, mid-thirties, throat slashed, found amid stalls of what looked like junk—vials, amulets, brass contraptions.
Uniforms milled near the center, their radios crackling static. Harlow's boots scraped against cracked tiles as she approached the taped-off area. The victim lay sprawled beside an overturned table, blood pooled in a perfect arc, soaking into the grit. No weapon in sight. His eyes stared up, wide and glassy, fingers curled around... nothing. Empty.
"Quinn." A voice cut through the murmur, familiar but laced with tension . Eva Kowalski stepped from behind a stack of crates, her curly red hair tucked behind one ear in that nervous tic Harlow had clocked during their one prior interview. Round glasses perched on her freckled nose, and her worn leather satchel bulged with books, slung over one shoulder. "You made good time. Underground's a beast this late."
Harlow's sharp jaw tightened. Eva worked the British Museum's archives, not forensics. Last time they'd crossed paths, she'd been digging into that clique— the one with the girl, Aurora, and their shady dealings. "Kowalski. What the hell are you doing here? This is a crime scene, not a field trip."
Eva adjusted her satchel, green eyes flicking to the body. "Consulting. Museum got a tip about artifacts down here. Your lot called me in when they found... this." She gestured at the victim, voice steady but fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. "Looks like a robbery gone wrong. See the smashed vials? Probably after the goods."
Harlow crouched beside the tape, her brown eyes scanning the scene. The blood arc gleamed under the lanterns, edges crisp, no spatter on the nearby crates. Unusual. Slashing throats usually sent red everywhere—walls, floor, the killer's shoes. Here, it contained itself, like poured from a bucket. She pulled on gloves, leaned closer. The victim's collar bore faint etchings, sigils maybe, glowing faintly under her light before fading. Trick of the beam? Her military bearing kept her steady, but the watch on her wrist felt heavier, a reminder of Morris, gone three years in shadows she couldn't explain.
"Robbery," Harlow repeated, standing. She circled the body, boot nudging a brass casing half-buried in dust. Small, like a pocket watch , face etched with markings that matched the sigils on the man's neck. Patina of verdigris clung to it, old but not rusted through. "No forced entry on those crates. And the stalls—look at them. Organized chaos, but nothing rifled. Killer didn't take much."
Eva knelt opposite, pulling a notebook from her satchel. "Maybe he got what he came for. This market... it's not your standard flea. People trade in things that don't play by rules. Enchanted bits, alchemicals. That brass thing? Could be a Veil Compass. Points to rifts, portals. Rare. Worth a fortune."
Harlow shot her a look, salt-and-pepper hair catching the lantern light. "Portals. Right. And I'm the Queen. Stick to history books, Kowalski." But she pocketed the compass anyway, feeling its cool weight . The needle inside spun lazily , not north, but toward a shadowed alcove at the platform's edge . She ignored it, focused on the body. Wounds shallow, precise, but the throat gash—clean, almost surgical. No hesitation marks. Defensive wounds? His hands clean, nails unbroken.
A uniform approached, notepad in hand. "Ma'am, witnesses scarce. Couple of vendors bolted when we showed. Said the market moves every full moon, bone token to enter. Victim's ID says Marcus Hale, small-time dealer in antiquities. No priors, but ties to occult circles."
Harlow nodded, eyes narrowing on the blood pool. She traced its edge with her finger, gloved tip coming away dry beyond the tape. "Blood's not soaking in right. Too contained. And the temp—feels colder here than up top." She glanced at Eva, who scribbled furiously. "You buy this supernatural bollocks?"
Eva stood, tucking hair again. "Hale traded here. If someone's after the Compass, it explains the hit. That thing's attuned to energy—supernatural hotspots. Steal it, you control access to places like this."
Harlow paced, flashlight sweeping the alcove the needle pointed to. Bricks there bulged, mortar loose, as if pushed inward recently. She pressed a palm against one—cold, vibrating faintly. "Colleague of yours? Or just convenient timing?" The words hung, accusation sharp. Eva's research, Aurora's crew—Harlow's gut screamed connection.
"Not a colleague." Eva's voice dropped, green eyes meeting brown. "But I've been here before. Research. Hale... he sourced items for the archives. This isn't random. Look at the sigils on his neck—they're protective. Meant to ward off shades, entities from the other side. If he was wearing them, someone bypassed them clean."
Harlow grunted, wedging a boot against the loose brick. It shifted, revealing a narrow gap, darkness beyond yawning like a throat. Dust motes swirled, carrying that ozone tang stronger now. She shone her light inside—empty, save for scuff marks in the silt, leading deeper. No blood trail. Killer vanished? Or never came from that direction?
"See?" Eva pressed closer, peering over her shoulder. "Rift. The Compass would've led him here. Maybe Hale activated it, pulled something through. Or someone used it to slip in."
Harlow's jaw clenched . Morris's case flashed— unexplained shadows, partner gone without a trace. She pulled the compass from her pocket, needle steady on the gap. It ticked, almost audible, syncing with her watch . "Evidence says blade work. No entity footprints, no spectral residue." But the vibration under her palm hummed, syncing with her pulse . She stepped back, mind racing . Blood arc: not slashed, displaced. Like the body shifted post-mortem. Hands empty— but the compass was on the ground nearby. Hale grabbed for it? No, clutched nothing.
"Quinn." Eva's tone sharpened, notebook forgotten. "The pool—it's not drying. Check the edges."
Harlow knelt again, scraping a sample into a vial from her kit. The blood clung, viscous, no clotting. Fresh, but the body's rigor suggested hours old. Timeline off. She stood, facing Eva. "You interpret this as magic. I see staging. Killer drains him elsewhere, dumps here to throw us off the market angle. But why leave the compass?"
Eva's freckles stood out under the lanterns. "Because it's bait. Or cursed. Hale knew risks—trading with shades. That artisan who made it? Not human. Points true, but draws trouble. Opens doors."
Harlow's eyes flicked to the uniforms, their faces pale in the glow. One coughed, muttering about bad air. She waved him off. "Get samples from every stall. Kowalski, walk me through this market. What's Hale's angle?"
Eva hesitated, then nodded, leading her past crates of vials bubbling without heat, amulets pulsing faint light. "Veil Market's hidden. Bone token gets you in—carved from something old, alive once. Sells info, potions, tools like the Compass. Hale dealt in rifts—locations where worlds thin. Competitors? Plenty. Or buyers who don't like loose ends."
They reached a stall draped in black cloth, symbols matching the compass face. Harlow lifted the fabric—empty, but residue shimmered on the wood, like oil on water. Her light caught it: iridescent, shifting. Not paint. "What is this?"
"Essence." Eva's voice whispered. "From a rift. Touch it, you see things."
Harlow's gloved finger brushed it. The platform blurred— shadows detached, forms slinking between crates, eyes like coals. She yanked back, breath sharp. Illusion? Or real? The compass in her pocket warmed, needle spinning wild.
"See?" Eva gripped her arm. "Not robbery. Summoning gone wrong. Hale tried closing a rift, someone—or something—stopped him."
Harlow shook her off, bearing rigid. Visions of Morris returned, swallowed by dark. Evidence piled: contained blood, displaced body, vanishing killer, humming walls. Mundane killer wouldn't leave traces that defied physics. She drew her sidearm, aimed at the alcove gap. "If this is your world bleeding in, Kowalski, it ends here. Call your friends—Aurora's lot. They know this place."
Eva's eyes widened behind glasses. "Quinn, you don't—"
A low rumble echoed from the gap, dust cascading . The needle locked south, toward the sound. Harlow's watch stopped ticking.