Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8T4EP0273DJHPZTEA2DAX

The stairwell reeked of damp concrete and something older, something metallic and sour, like old pennies left too long in a pocket. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the crumbling steps with the precision of a soldier on patrol, her boot heels striking the uneven treads with deliberate rhythm. The beam of her torch cut through the dark, illuminating graffiti—twisted sigils and names scrawled in what looked like dried blood. *Not blood*, she told herself. *Just paint. Just spray paint.* But the air hummed. Not with the usual London white noise of traffic and chatter, but with a low, resonant vibration, like the pluck of a string too tight. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the worn leather of her watch, the one she’d kept strapped to her left wrist since Morris’s last case. The one she’d refused to replace. *Tick-tock, tick-tock.* She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. *Focus.* At the bottom of the stairs, the tunnel yawned open, its walls slick with condensation. The beam of her torch caught the glint of something metallic on the ground—a bone token, its surface etched with spiraling patterns. Quinn crouched, her gloved fingers brushing against it. Cold. *Too cold.* She pocketed it without touching the surface, her instincts screaming that this wasn’t just some discarded trinket. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows ahead, smooth and amused. Quinn straightened, her torch flickering as she adjusted the beam. Standing near the center of the tunnel was DCI Alistair Vane, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored overcoat, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He looked like a man who’d just stepped out of a gentleman’s club, not a detective who’d been called to an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. “Traffic,” Quinn said, her voice flat. “And then there was the *matter* of convincing the station that this wasn’t a prank call.” Vane smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. The *matter* of explaining why we’re standing in a tunnel that doesn’t exist on any official map.” Quinn ignored the jab. Her gaze swept the area—no bodies, no obvious signs of struggle. Just the tunnel, the graffiti, and the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air. “Where is it?” “Where’s what?” “*Don’t.*” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She stepped forward, her torchlight catching the glint of something half-buried in the muck near the tunnel’s edge. A brass compass, its casing etched with sigils that made her skin prickle. The needle spun wildly, as if searching for something just out of reach. Vane followed her gaze. “That’s… not standard issue.” “No,” Quinn said. “It’s not.” She crouched again, this time careful not to touch the compass. The sigils pulsed faintly under her torchlight, like embers in a dying fire. She’d seen things like this before—just never in a place that was supposed to be ordinary. Never in a place that was supposed to be *real.* “You think this is connected?” Vane asked, his voice low. Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her attention to the tunnel walls. More sigils, carved into the concrete—some fresh, some faded, as if they’d been there for years. And then, just beyond the reach of her torchlight, something else. A shape. A *body.* Not a corpse. Not yet. Quinn stood abruptly, her pulse quickening. “Vane.” He followed her gaze and cursed under his breath. A man lay slumped against the wall, his head lolling to one side. His suit was immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, but his face was frozen in an expression of sheer, unadulterated terror. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’d been mid-scream when whatever had happened to him struck. Quinn approached slowly, her torchlight catching the glint of something dark and wet beneath his chin. Blood. But not enough. Not for a fatal wound. “Stabbed,” Vane said, already pulling out his notepad. “Looks like a clean thrust. Ribcage.” Quinn didn’t touch him. She didn’t need to. The angle was wrong. The positioning was off. If this had been a straightforward stabbing, the victim would’ve collapsed differently. His limbs were too relaxed, his posture too *wrong.* She knelt beside him, her torchlight flickering over his chest. No defensive wounds. No signs of a struggle. Just the single, precise puncture. “No weapon,” Vane muttered. “And no blood trail.” Quinn’s fingers hovered over the man’s wrist. His skin was cold, but not the cold of death. Not yet. She pressed two fingers against his neck. A faint pulse. Weak, but there. “He’s alive,” she said. Vane blinked. “What?” “He’s *alive.*” Quinn’s voice was sharp. “And if he’s alive, then this wasn’t just a stabbing.” Vane’s expression darkened. “You’re saying this is something else.” Quinn didn’t answer. She stood, her gaze sweeping the tunnel again. The compass. The sigils. The bone token in her pocket. The way the air *hummed.* “Quinn,” Vane said, his voice low. “You’re not suggesting—” “*I’m suggesting nothing.*” She cut him off, her voice steel. “But I’m also not ignoring the evidence. This isn’t a normal crime scene.” Vane exhaled sharply. “Then what the hell is it?” Quinn didn’t have an answer. Not yet. But she had a feeling. A feeling that coiled in her gut like a serpent, cold and hungry. She pulled out her phone, the screen casting a pale glow over her face. “Call forensics. But tell them to bring *special* equipment. And get me a list of every missing person report from the last month. Cross-reference with the Veil Market.” Vane stared at her. “The *what*?” Quinn ignored him. She was already pulling on a pair of fresh gloves, her mind racing. The Veil Market. A place she’d heard whispers about in the underbelly of London’s occult scene. A place that moved with the full moon, a place that sold things that weren’t supposed to exist. And now, a man who shouldn’t be alive was lying in a tunnel that shouldn’t exist, surrounded by sigils that made her skin crawl. Quinn crouched beside the compass again, her torchlight catching the way the needle spun, as if searching for something just beyond their reach. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the brass casing. The sigils pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Then, from the shadows behind her, a sound. A whisper. “*You shouldn’t be here.*” Quinn froze. She turned slowly, her torchlight sweeping the darkness. Nothing. Just the tunnel. Just the humming air. But she knew she hadn’t imagined it. Vane noticed her stillness. “Quinn?” She didn’t answer. Her gaze locked onto the compass, the sigils, the bone token in her pocket. Something was wrong. And she was just beginning to understand how deep it went.