AI Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs into the guts of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist, the only sound piercing the damp silence . Flashlights from the forensics team bobbed like fireflies in the murk, casting jagged shadows across cracked tiles and forgotten posters peeling from the walls. The air hung thick with the scent of mold and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground.
She ducked under a low beam, her salt-and-pepper hair brushing the edge of her collar. Eighteen years on the force had taught her to read scenes like maps, but this place twisted the compass. The Veil Market, they called it. Whispers in the precinct painted it as a myth, a black market for the weird and forbidden, tucked away in places the living forgot. Tonight, it bled into reality with yellow crime scene tape fluttering in a draft that shouldn't exist.
Uniforms parted as she approached the cordoned area. A body sprawled in the center of what looked like a makeshift stall—empty crates stacked as shelves, remnants of glowing vials shattered on the concrete. The victim, a wiry man in his thirties, face frozen in a rictus of surprise, lay amid the glass shards. His throat gaped open, not sliced but as if something had unraveled it from the inside.
"Quinn," a voice cut through the low murmur of techs snapping photos. Eva Kowalski emerged from behind a pillar, her curly red hair tied back, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. She clutched her worn leather satchel, stuffed with books that poked at the seams. "You made good time. Traffic up top was a nightmare."
Harlow nodded, eyes already scanning . Eva had consulted on a few odd cases before—her gig at the British Museum's restricted archives made her the go-to for anything that smelled like history gone sour . Tonight, the brass had pulled her in as a civilian expert. "What've we got? And why the hell is this place lit up like a Christmas tree gone wrong?"
Eva tucked a stray curl behind her left ear, a tell Harlow had clocked years ago as nerves kicking in. "Power's jury-rigged from the old lines. Market folk tapped into the grid without tripping breakers. Victim's name is Silas Trent. Vendor, apparently. Dealt in curios—enchanted trinkets, banned herbs. No priors, but his stall was hot tonight. Full moon's got the place hopping, or hopping less quietly."
Harlow crouched beside the body, gloved hands hovering over the wound. Blood pooled in a perfect circle, no sprays, no arcs. The edges frayed like pulled thread, veins visible beneath pale skin as if the flesh had dissolved. "Stabbed? Poison?"
Eva shook her head, pulling a small notebook from her satchel. "Not that simple. Forensics prelim says no blade marks. Toxicology's pending, but the cut—it's cauterized. Like acid, but slower. Burn patterns match nothing in standard databases."
Harlow's sharp jaw tightened. She traced the air above the neckline, noting the absence of defensive wounds. Silas's hands lay open, palms up, fingers curled as if grasping at smoke . Around him, the stall's contents lay undisturbed: a brass amulet etched with spirals, jars of iridescent powder sealed tight. One item caught her eye—a small brass compass, its face marred by verdigris and protective sigils. The needle spun lazily , not pointing north, but twitching toward the body .
"Curious," Harlow muttered. She picked it up, the metal cool against her glove. "Veil Compass. Points to rifts, portals. Market staple, from what your museum buddies say."
Eva leaned in, green eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "Exactly. Crafted by Shade artisans—shadow folk, if the lore holds. Silas was peddling one last night. Buyer haggled hard, witnesses say. But get this: the compass was active. Needle locked on something here."
Harlow set it down, the needle steady now on Silas's chest. Her military bearing kicked in—scan, assess, eliminate. The station's layout pressed in: arched ceilings dripped condensation, tracks long overgrown with moss. Footprints scuffed the dust—boots, varied sizes, leading from the main drag to the stall. But they circled back, no clear exit. "Witnesses placed the buyer here at closing. Struggle? No signs. Blood's contained, like he bled out in place without moving."
Eva flipped her notebook. "Colleagues—stall neighbors—say Silas argued with the buyer over price. Guy in a hooded coat, face obscured. Offered bone tokens as payment. That's entry currency here. Then, poof—Silas drops. They thought seizure at first. Called it in anonymous through a surface drop."
Harlow stood, pacing the perimeter. The tape fluttered again, caught in that impossible draft. She followed it to a grate in the wall, half-hidden by crates. Peering through, she spotted a shimmer—air rippling like heat off pavement. "This grate. Sealed?"
"Was," Eva replied. "Pried open earlier. Leads to service tunnels. But the shimmer? That's new. Residual energy, maybe."
Harlow knelt, shining her light. The metal bars bore scratches, not from tools—claws, curved and deep. "Not human. And look—residue on the edges. Glistening, like oil but thicker." She scraped a sample into an evidence bag, the substance clinging to her glove like tar. "Forensics will love this. Doesn't match lubricant or grease."
Eva's brow furrowed . She adjusted her glasses, peering closer. "Could be ectoplasm. Old texts describe it from rift breaches—supernatural leaks. Silas's wound... it matches dissolution from exposure. Not murder. Accident."
Harlow shot her a look. "Accident? In a black market peddling ghost junk? Come on, Evie. Evidence screams cover-up. Footprints loop because someone dragged him, staged it. Buyer didn't pay in tokens; he paid with something that ate Silas alive."
Eva crossed her arms, satchel bumping her hip. "Staged how? No drag marks on the body. Dust undisturbed except for the approach. And that compass—it's not spinning wild. It's fixed on him because he was the rift. Silas dabbled in alchemy, records show. Maybe he crossed a line, opened himself up. Market's full of warnings: handle with care or become the anomaly."
Harlow ignored the chill creeping up her spine, the one that echoed her partner's unexplained end three years back. DS Morris, vanished in a warehouse haze that reeked of the same ozone. She circled the stall again, eyes on the shattered vials. Powders mixed in the blood pool—blue, green, swirling into fractals. Not random. Patterned, like a sigil half-formed.
"Look here." She pointed, voice steady . "Vials didn't just break. Positions match the compass sigils. Someone forced the shatter, completed the etching with his blood." Her mind pieced it: buyer arrives, argues, slips the compass into Silas's hand during the scuffle. Needle activates, draws energy from the nearest rift—the grate. Silas clutches it, unknowingly seals the deal. Flesh unravels as the portal feeds.
Eva stepped closer, tucking hair again. "Deduction fits the occult angle, but forensics'll call it coincidence. Blood patterns from fall impact. No tool marks on the vials."
Harlow's brown eyes locked on the grate's shimmer. She reached in, fingers brushing the ripple. A jolt hummed through her glove—static, or more? "Coincidence doesn't leave claw scratches. Buyer wasn't human. Shade, maybe, or whatever lurks in those rifts. Used Silas as bait, pulled the essence through him."
The team buzzed around them, a tech bagging the amulet. Eva hesitated, then nodded. "If that's the play, we need the Market's ledger. Silas kept one—hidden in his stall somewhere."
Harlow scanned the crates, spotting a loose panel. She pried it open, revealing a battered journal. Entries scrawled in hurried ink: sales of herbs, tokens traded, a final note. "Buyer demanded the Compass attuned wrong. Said it pointed to 'the lost one.' Price: my silence ."
Eva's eyes widened . "Lost one. Old lore—refers to echoes , spirits unbound."
Harlow closed the journal, the pieces slotting. The evidence piled wrong because it wasn't a killing; it was a transaction gone spectral . Silas hadn't died—he'd been traded . The wound wasn't entry; it was exit. Her watch ticked louder in the quiet, a reminder of Morris's file, stamped unsolved. This time, she wouldn't blink.
A uniform approached, radio crackling. "Detective, surface team's got a lead on the hooded guy. Spotted near the full moon shift."
Harlow pocketed the journal, gaze lingering on the compass. Its needle twitched, pulling toward the grate. "Hold the line here. Eva, you're with me. We're chasing shadows tonight."
They moved toward the tunnels, the station's hum growing in her ears. The shimmer pulsed , waiting.