Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8S0J9DHZ1WXPQKNE796V1

The abandoned Tube station was supposed to be off-limits. That was the official line, anyway—the kind of thing they scribbled on yellowed signs and posted near the rusted gates. But Quinn had seen the way the forensics team’s boots scuffed the damp concrete, had heard the low murmur of whispers when she’d walked past the cordoned-off entrance last night. The Veil Market wasn’t just a rumor. It was a fact, and she was the only one who seemed to care. The air smelled of wet stone and something older, something like burnt copper and damp earth. A faint hum vibrated beneath her boots, just at the edge of hearing. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch—Morris’s watch, really, though she’d kept it after. The second hand ticked like a metronome counting down to something she wasn’t ready to face. Eva Kowalski stood near the far wall, her round glasses reflecting the dim glow of the crime scene lights. She tucked a curl of red hair behind her ear, her freckled cheeks flushed despite the cold. “You’re late,” Eva said without looking up. Her voice was steady, but Quinn could hear the tension in it, the way her fingers twitched around the strap of her satchel. “Traffic,” Quinn lied. The truth was, she’d been standing outside the station for twenty minutes, watching, listening. The hum had been louder when she’d first arrived. Now it was a whisper, like a breath held just before release. Eva finally turned, her green eyes sharp behind the lenses. “They found him in the old signal booth. No signs of struggle, but the body’s…” She hesitated, then gestured toward the rusted metal structure at the center of the station. “You can see for yourself.” Quinn stepped closer. The signal booth was a relic, its glass panes cracked and spiderwebbed, the metal frame sagging under the weight of years. Inside, a man lay sprawled across the floor, his body twisted in an unnatural angle. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his lips were parted as if he’d been caught mid-scream. But there was no blood. No wounds. No signs of violence. Eva exhaled sharply. “No defensive wounds. No blood loss. Just… like he fell.” Quinn crouched, her gloved fingers brushing the man’s wrist. The skin was cold, but not unnaturally so. She checked his pulse—nothing. Then she turned her attention to the floor. The concrete was scuffed, but not in a way that suggested a struggle. More like someone had been *dragged* here, then simply… let go. She stood, her jaw tightening. “He wasn’t killed here.” Eva frowned. “Then where?” Quinn didn’t answer. She walked around the booth, her eyes scanning the walls. The station was too clean. Too *neat*. Like someone had swept away any evidence of a fight. Her gaze landed on a cluster of footprints near the entrance—a pair of heavy boots, then lighter steps, then more boots. But the lighter steps didn’t match Eva’s size. And they weren’t hers. She crouched again, examining the prints. They were too precise, too deliberate. Like someone who knew exactly where they were stepping. Eva followed her gaze. “You think it’s connected to the Market?” Quinn didn’t look up. “I think someone brought him here *after* he was dead.” A beat of silence. Then Eva’s voice, careful: “You’re saying he was already dead when he got here.” “No.” Quinn stood, brushing dust from her knees. “I’m saying he wasn’t dead when he left wherever he came from.” Eva’s breath hitched. “You think he was… taken?” Quinn didn’t confirm it. She didn’t need to. The way Eva’s fingers tightened around her satchel told her everything she needed to know. She moved to the far corner of the station, where the hum was strongest. The air shimmered slightly, like heat rising from pavement. She pulled the Veil Compass from her pocket, the brass casing cold against her palm. The needle spun wildly before settling, pointing toward the signal booth. Eva joined her, her voice low. “What is that?” “A compass that points to supernatural energy.” Quinn didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Eva knew what it was. She’d seen the way the Market’s dealers carried them like talismans. Eva’s fingers brushed the sigils etched into the compass face. “It’s pointing at the body.” Quinn nodded. “He wasn’t just brought here. He was *pulled* here.” Eva’s eyes widened. “Like a rift?” “Like a door opening.” Quinn’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. “And someone closed it behind him.” A long silence. Then Eva’s voice, barely above a whisper: “That’s impossible.” Quinn turned to her, her brown eyes sharp. “Is it?” Eva swallowed hard. “No.” Quinn didn’t press. She knew Eva was thinking the same thing she was—the Veil Market wasn’t just a place. It was a *thing*. And if it had taken this man, then it could take more. She walked back to the body, her boots crunching on the damp concrete. She crouched again, this time examining the man’s hands. His fingers were curled, as if he’d been trying to grasp something. Something that wasn’t there anymore. She stood, her gaze flicking to the Veil Compass in her hand. The needle was still pointing at the body, but now it was trembling, like a compass over a magnet too strong to resist. Eva’s voice was tense. “What’s happening?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was already moving, her steps quick and deliberate. She walked to the far end of the station, where the hum was loudest. The air shimmered again, and for a second, she thought she saw something move in the darkness. Then she saw the sigils. Carved into the wall, just above the level of her head. Fresh. Wet. Eva followed her gaze. “What the hell is that?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was already pulling out her notebook, her pen scratching across the page as she sketched the symbols. They were familiar—ancient, forbidden. The kind of thing that made occult researchers like Eva sit up and take notice. She turned to Eva, her voice low. “This isn’t just a crime scene. It’s a calling card.” Eva’s breath caught. “From the Market?” Quinn didn’t confirm it. She didn’t need to. The way Eva’s hands were shaking told her everything she needed to know. She stood, her gaze sweeping over the station one last time. The hum was louder now, a low, insistent pulse beneath the concrete. She turned to Eva, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. “Someone’s playing a game. And they’re not done yet.” Eva’s eyes were wide. “What do we do?” Quinn adjusted the strap of her watch, her fingers brushing the leather. “We find out who’s next.” She turned toward the entrance, her steps echoing in the empty station. The hum grew louder, a low, rhythmic pulse beneath her boots. She didn’t look back. Eva followed, her satchel bouncing against her hip. “Quinn…” Quinn didn’t stop. She knew what was coming. She always did. The Veil Market wasn’t just a place. It was a hunger. And it was waking up.