Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86MXD8X7H1QCYPEW5A9ZG

The air tasted of dust and something metallic, old pennies and wet iron. Harlow adjusted the collar of her coat, the chill of the abandoned Tube station settling deep. Camden Town, above, throbbed with a Saturday night pulse, oblivious to the quiet stillness down here. A single, bare bulb cast a sickly yellow glow across the scene – a small circle of unnerving clarity in a vast, echoing darkness. DS Rourke stood near the body, a young officer practically vibrating with eagerness to please. He gestured with a gloved hand towards the victim. “Textbook, Detective. Mugging gone wrong. Wallet’s gone, phone’s gone. Couple of defensive wounds.” Harlow didn’t bother looking at the body yet. Her gaze swept the platform, taking in the chipped tiles, the faded advertisements clinging to the walls like ghosts, the elaborate graffiti swirling with colours that seemed to absorb the light. The Veil Market. Even knowing it existed didn't make it… normal. A prickle ran up her spine. This wasn’t a random mugging. Not here. “Textbooks get rewritten, Rourke,” she stated, her voice clipped. She approached the body, a man sprawled awkwardly amongst discarded newspapers and dust bunnies. Early thirties, expensive shoes, bespoke suit. He wouldn’t have been down here for a shortcut. She crouched, ignoring the crunch of broken glass under her knees. The defensive wounds were superficial, almost…performative. Like he’d gone through the motions, more for show than genuine resistance. And the blood. Too little. A clean strike to the temple, but minimal spray, no struggle marks on the surrounding tiles beyond a few scuffs. “Cause of death?” “Blunt force trauma, Detective. Looks like he was hit with something heavy. We’re searching for the weapon.” Rourke’s voice held a note of barely contained pride. He wanted this closed, neat, and quickly. Harlow ran a gloved finger along the man’s lapel. No fibres, no tears. “Find anything *missing* besides the obvious?” Rourke blinked. “Missing? Just the wallet and phone, like I said.” “Anything…out of place? Anything that doesn't fit?” He shifted his weight. “Well, there’s this." He indicated a small, tarnished brass compass lying a foot from the body. It looked ancient, the casing covered in a green patina. "Doesn’t look like it belongs with the rest of his stuff.” Harlow picked it up, turning it over in her hand. The face was etched with strange, curling sigils. Not decorative. Protective. She felt a faint thrum against her palm. “What do you make of it?” “Probably dropped by the attacker? Some kinda souvenir?” Souvenir. Rourke’s logic was…simplistic. Harlow glanced at her worn leather watch. 2:17 AM. The Market moved locations with the full moon. It had been three hours since the peak. And tonight's location? Right here, beneath Camden. “This is a Veil Compass,” she said, her voice low. Rourke frowned. “Veil what now?” “The Veil Market. It's a…specialized market. Sells things you won’t find at Camden High Street.” He snorted. “Right. And I suppose he came down here to buy…what? A cursed amulet?” “Something like that.” Harlow ignored his skepticism. She knew the look. Most officers dismissed the stories surrounding the Market as urban legend, the ramblings of the city’s eccentric underbelly. She’d learned long ago not to waste time trying to convince them. She opened the compass. The needle spun wildly for a moment, then settled, quivering, pointing directly…up. Straight towards the surface. “That’s odd,” she murmured, more to herself than to Rourke. “It should be pointing towards a rift, a concentration of energy. Not the ceiling.” “Maybe it’s broken?” Rourke offered helpfully. Harlow shook her head. “These things are remarkably resilient. They're crafted by…specialists.” She examined the platform again. That's when she noticed it. A faint scent, overlaid with the damp smell of the tunnels. Cinnamon. And ozone. A strange combination. “Rourke, check the security footage from the station entrance. See if anyone matching a description of a Shade was seen entering or exiting within the last hour.” “A…Shade, Detective?” “Just do it.” He hesitated, then nodded, pulling out his radio. “Control, request review of security footage from Camden Town station, South entrance. Repeat, Camden Town South entrance…” Harlow continued her survey. The victim's expensive shoes were spotless. He hadn’t walked through here. He’d been brought here. Carried. She traced the line of the platform with her eyes, noticing a subtle disarrangement of dust near a side tunnel. Someone had disturbed it recently. “He didn’t come here alone,” she said, her voice raspy. “Someone met him.” Rourke returned, shaking his head. “Nothing, Detective. No sign of anyone unusual entering or leaving. Just the usual late-night foot traffic.” “‘Unusual’ is a moving target, Rourke. Expand the search. Check the surrounding streets. See if anyone saw a car dropping someone off.” “Right away.” He hurried off, still looking unconvinced. Harlow knelt back down, studying the compass again. The needle continued to point upwards, unwavering. An impossible direction. Unless…unless the source wasn't *below* the surface, but *above* it. “Shift in the ley lines,” she whispered. A disruption, a convergence. The Market wasn't just a place. It was a symptom. A point where the veil between worlds thinned. And someone had taken advantage of that. Suddenly, a voice, sharp and precise, cut through the silence. “Finding anything interesting, Detective?” Harlow didn’t need to turn around. She recognized the cadence, the edge of contained amusement. Detective Harlow Quinn. Standing at the mouth of the side tunnel, hands clasped behind her back, a silhouette against the gloom. “Just admiring the local decor, Quinn,” Harlow replied, keeping her voice even. “Though I confess, I find the colour palette rather…dour.” Quinn stepped into the light, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair gleaming. Her brown eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto Harlow’s. She noticed the compass in Harlow’s hand. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face. “The Veil Market. A rather…unconventional location for a robbery, don’t you think?” “Unconventional, yes. But not entirely unexpected.” Harlow didn’t offer up any more information. Quinn was a shark, circling, waiting for a weakness. “You believe he came here willingly?” Quinn asked, her sharp jaw tight. “I believe someone *brought* him here. And I think our victim wasn't looking to purchase anything. He was delivering it.” “Delivering what?” “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Harlow met Quinn's gaze, refusing to back down. “What’s your assessment?” Quinn glanced around the platform, her gaze lingering on the faint disturbance in the dust. “A straightforward case. A desperate man, a quick score. Nothing more.” “You think so?” Harlow raised an eyebrow. “A man in a bespoke suit, murdered in an abandoned Tube station, with a strange compass left at the scene? That’s your ‘straightforward’?” “Occam’s razor, Detective. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.” “And sometimes,” Harlow said, her fingers tightening around the Veil Compass, “the simplest explanation is just…wrong.”