Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8GN7E9BQ6GPR6MFK27JHV

Detective Harlow Quinn pushed through the rusted gate at the edge of Camden's forgotten underbelly, her boots scraping against cracked concrete littered with cigarette butts and faded graffiti. The air hung thick with damp mildew, the kind that clung to clothes like a bad memory. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, noting the time—2:17 AM. Her sharp jaw tightened as she descended the crumbling stairs into the abandoned Tube station, flashlight cutting through the gloom like a knife. Metropolitan Police had gotten an anonymous tip about a body down here, but the location screamed wrong. No one came to these derelict platforms anymore, not since the line shut down decades ago. Yet the echo of her footsteps bounced off tiles that looked too clean, too preserved. She reached the bottom, where yellow crime scene tape fluttered in a breeze that shouldn't exist this far underground. Uniformed officers milled about, their faces pale under helmet lights. One nodded to her, stepping aside to reveal the sprawl of stalls—wait, stalls? Quinn blinked, her brown eyes narrowing. What she thought was debris resolved into makeshift booths draped with tattered cloths, shelves groaning under vials of iridescent liquids and odd trinkets that glinted unnaturally. This wasn't an empty station. It was a market, hidden and alive, though now it lay silent, vendors vanished like smoke. "Detective Quinn," a voice called from the shadows. Eva Kowalski stepped forward, her curly red hair tucked behind her left ear in that nervous tic Quinn had clocked during their last consultation. Eva clutched a worn leather satchel bulging with books, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. At 5'4", she looked out of place among the towering officers, but her green eyes sparked with the intensity of someone who belonged in archives, not crime scenes. "They called me in. Said there were artifacts involved. I work at the British Museum—restricted sections. This place... it's not what you think." Quinn crossed her arms, military precision in her stance. "And what do I think it is, Ms. Kowalski? Squatters peddling junk in a hole? Explain why you're here before I have you escorted out." Eva glanced at the officers, then leaned in. "The tip mentioned occult elements. I've consulted on similar cases. Look around. This isn't a regular black market. It's the Veil Market. Moves every full moon, requires a bone token to enter. Sells things that bend reality—enchanted goods, alchemical brews. Information that could topple governments if it surfaced." Quinn snorted, but her gaze swept the scene. A body lay sprawled near a central booth, male, mid-thirties, throat slashed clean but no blood pool. Just a faint shimmer on the floor, like oil on water. The victim's hand clutched a small brass object, its face etched with sigils that twisted under her flashlight beam. Patina of verdigris coated it, needle frozen northward—or was it? She tilted her head. The needle quivered, pointing not to magnetic north, but toward a blank wall. "Odd choice for a suicide," Quinn muttered, kneeling beside the body. No defensive wounds, clothes pristine except for that slash. "Weapon?" One officer shook his head. "None found. Coroner estimates time of death around midnight, but the body's cold—too cold for down here." Eva crouched opposite Quinn, her satchel thumping against the tiles. "It's not suicide. Or murder, not in the way you mean. See those sigils on his skin? Faint, under the collar. They're protective wards, but inverted. Like someone turned his own defenses against him." Quinn's fingers brushed the brass object, pulling it free. A compass, but no directions marked— just those etchings. "Wards? You're talking fairy tales. This guy's probably a dealer who crossed the wrong fence. Evidence points to a quick kill, no struggle. But the blood—where's the blood?" "Absorbed," Eva said, voice steady. "By a rift. That compass in your hand? It's a Veil Compass. Crafted by Shade artisans, attuned to supernatural energy. The needle doesn't point north; it seeks portals, rifts between worlds. Watch." Eva reached out, her freckled hand steady as she tapped the casing. The needle spun wildly, then locked onto the same wall. Quinn felt a chill crawl up her spine, unrelated to the underground draft. She stood, approaching the wall. Smooth tile, no seams. But her shadow stretched wrong against it, elongated like it tried to flee. "Portals? You're suggesting some portal ate the blood?" Quinn paced, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. "I've seen setups like this—staged to confuse. Anonymous tip leads us here, body positioned just so. But the temperature drop, the missing blood... it doesn't fit a standard hit." Eva adjusted her glasses, tucking that curl again. "Because it's not standard. The Veil Market thrives on the impossible. This man—let's call him Vendor X for now—he sold information. Banned substances, too. Someone wanted him silenced, but not with a knife. The slash is a red herring. Look closer at the wound." Quinn leaned in, breath fogging the air. The edges of the cut shimmered, not with drying blood, but a faint luminescence, like bioluminescent algae. No arterial spray patterns on the surrounding stalls. She traced the floor with her eyes: scuff marks, but they looped in impossible geometries, circles within circles that defied footprints. "Your interpretation?" Quinn asked, voice low as officers murmured nearby. Eva flipped open her satchel, pulling out a leather-bound tome cracked with age. "Ancient texts describe rifts opening during rituals. The compass points to the nearest one. If a entity crossed through—say, a Shade or worse—it could manifest as a blade of shadow. Slashes without tools, blood drawn into the void. No mess, no trace. The market's schedule means it moves soon; evidence vanishes with it." Quinn pocketed the compass, feeling its weight like an accusation. Her mind flashed to DS Morris, three years back—found in an alley with wounds that healed wrong, eyes vacant like he'd seen the abyss. Official report called it a mugging, but the details gnawed at her: no blood then, either, just that same chill. She shook it off, focusing. "So you think some... supernatural hitman did this? Convenient. Explains away the inconsistencies." "Not convenient," Eva countered, her green eyes locking on Quinn's brown ones. "Dangerous. If the rift's unstable, it could pull more in. Feel the air? Thicker now. And that compass—it's vibrating." Quinn pulled it out. The needle trembled, sigils glowing faintly. She stepped toward the wall, pressing her palm against it. Cold seeped through, but beneath, a hum, like distant machinery. Or a heartbeat. Officers shifted uneasily. "Ma'am, forensics is en route," one said. "We should secure the perimeter." "Ignore that," Quinn barked. "Kowalski, if this is a rift, how do we close it?" Eva hesitated, tucking hair. "You don't, not easily. But the compass can stabilize it temporarily. Align the sigils with the wall's energy." Quinn twisted the compass, watching the needle steady. A crack appeared in the tile, hairline thin, emitting a whisper of wind that carried scents of ozone and decay. Inside, darkness swirled, and for a split second, she glimpsed shapes—tendrils, eyes that weren't eyes. "Christ," Quinn whispered, pulling back. The evidence clicked: the body's position faced the wall, hand outstretched as if reaching for escape. The slash aligned perfectly with the rift's edge, like he'd been cut from the other side. No human killer could manage that angle without phasing through solid matter. Eva nodded. "You see it now. Not a crime scene in our world. A bleed-through." Quinn's jaw set. "If you're right, this changes everything. But we need proof—something tangible before the market shifts." She scanned the booth, spotting a bone token on the counter, etched with similar sigils. Snatching it, she felt its warmth, alive. "This got him in. Maybe it logs entries. If we trace who else entered tonight..." Eva's face lit, freckles dancing in the light. "Smart. The tokens bind to users. Residual energy could reveal the last handler." Quinn tossed it to an officer. "Bag it for analysis. And get me CCTV from above ground—anyone entering this station." As the officer hurried off, Quinn turned back to the rift. The compass steadied in her grip, needle pointing true. Morris's case flooded back: an artifact found on him, dismissed as junk. Similar patina. Her watch ticked, a reminder of time slipping. This wasn't just a murder. It was a pattern, one she'd missed before. Eva packed her book. "Detective, if this is tied to larger forces—the clique I've heard whispers about—they're deeper than police files go." Quinn met her gaze. "Then we dig deeper." The rift hummed softer now, contained for the moment. But the air still pressed, heavy with secrets waiting to unfold. She holstered her light, steps echoing as she led the way out, the compass a heavy promise in her pocket.