Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8Y0468CDZC1940GQWVFRM

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped through the manhole, her boots clanging on the rusted metal. The stench hit her first—sewer gas and something sharper, green and pine, like crushed sage. Above, the streetlights blurred into halos through the grate. She climbed the ladder, fingers curling around the rungs like they owed her money. Camden above hummed with life; below, the air hung thick, as if the tube itself were holding its breath. The Veil Market wasn’t supposed to be here. She’d seen the reports: a body found in an abandoned Northern Line platform, 12 miles from any known entrance. The call had come at 3 a.m., desk sergeant’s voice tight, *“Detective, it’s… not right. The girl on the line said it’s the Veil. But they don’t *find* things there. Not unless they’re… leaving.”* Quinn adjusted the worn leather of her watch—6:17, early for a crime scene, early for her. 18 years on the force, and she still got up at dawn, still sharpened her own coffee for the drive. No time for luck. The platform loomed ahead, graffiti tagged over decades of ads. “*NO SOLICITORS*” scrawled in neon, now faded to a sickly green. A faint glow seeped through a torn curtain of plastic tarp at the far end—enough to show a shadow hunched over something. She drew her notepad, flipping to a blank page, and moved closer. “Quinn.” She stopped. The voice was too bright, too young, to be her usual crew. She turned. Eva Kowalski stood by the ticket barrier, her curly red hair escaping the clip at the nape, a streak plastered to her freckled forehead. Round glasses slid down her nose, and she was tugging at her left ear—nervous habit. Her satchel was open, books spilling onto the concrete: *Ars Goetia for Beginners*, *The Archaeology of Occult Burials*, a tattered thing with a watermark from Oxford. “Jesus, Evie,” Quinn said, keeping her voice low. “You’re supposed to be in the archives, not sneaking into death traps.” Eva pushed her glasses up, the snort of a laugh too loud. “Lila’s dead, Harlow. In a *supernatural* black market. The woman who called the cops found the body *with a bone token*. She thought it was a prank, but Lila recognized it—said Marcus was the one selling to her.” She nodded at the tarp. “I had to see. We were… not friends, but… he owed me a favor.” Quinn bit back a sigh. Eva and her “occult researcher” nonsense. 26, master’s from Oxford, works at the British Museum’s restricted archives. She’d tried to drag Quinn to a wicca circle once, said it was “team-building.” Quinn had told her to stick to mummies and move on. But Marcus was a name the I.T. team had run down. A “freelance curator” with ties to the Veil Market. Not the kind of guy who ended up in a Tube station unless… She stepped past Eva, ducked under the tarp. The air hit her in the face—sage, yes, but sweeter, cloying, like burnt honey. The body lay on its side, pressed against a wall. She knelt, not touching, and saw why the caller had panicked. Marcus was a big man, 6’2”, but his skin was as pale as parchment, veins running silver under it like rivers of mercury. His eyes were open—wide, unblinking, as if he’d been staring at a ghost. His throat was a ragged tear, but the blood wasn’t red. It was black, congealed in clots, like oil. In his hand: a brass compass. The case was covered in verdigris, etched with symbols that looked like they’d been carved with a knife, deeper than usual. The needle was bent, pointing *away* from the tarp, toward the wall. “Quinn?” She looked up. Eva was in the doorway, her satchel closed now, fingers still hovering near her ear. “What is it?” “The body,” Eva said. “The silver veins. It’s a spirit bond. Marcus was… partnered with something. A familiar, maybe. Or a daemon. They share a life force—if the familiar dies, the host withers. Which is probably why his throat’s torn out. The familiar got free, then came back for revenge.” Quinn scoffed. “You been reading *Grimm* again?” Eva squared her shoulders. “I been reading *medieval grimoires*. Marcus bought a Coptic text from me last month—said it had ‘warding formulas.’ He didn’t pay, but he *said* he’d show me a sigil, something that worked. This compass—look at the face. Those aren’t protective sigils. They’re *binding*. Shade runes. Crafted by a Shade, the ones who live between worlds. You think a criminal would carry a *craftsman’s* compass? Or someone who’s… *negotiating* with them?” Quinn leaned forward, squinting at the symbols. Eva was right—some looked like broken chains, others like eyes with no pupils. Sharp, precise. Not the messy, overlapping doodles the graffiti artist had done on the wall. She glanced at the wall behind Marcus. There was a crack in the concrete, dark, like a mouth. Beyond it, she couldn’t see—no glow, no shadow. Just black. “Bone token,” she said, flipping to her notepad. “Entry requirement. Marcus had one.” She nodded at the man’s vest, peeking out from the tattered coat. A white bone, carved into a wolf’s head, glinted at his throat. “How does that work? You give it up, get in. But he’s been dead hours. The med tech said rigor’s set in.” Eva crossed her arms, her satchel strap digging into her shoulder. “Rigor takes 2 hours to set, 12 to peak. He’s been dead less than 6. Maybe the token’s not just an entry pass. Maybe it’s a *marker*. Locks the door behind you. Traps you in.” She took a step closer, voice lower. “Marcus owed a debt. To someone in the market. Someone who didn’t want him to leave.” Quinn’s fingers brushed the broken compass. The needle spun, slow, as if it couldn’t decide which way to go. *Aurora*, she thought. Her little sister, 10 years younger, still into the “goth stuff” Eva loved. Had Aurora mentioned Marcus? Probably not. Aurora was good at not mentioning things that got her in trouble. “Who found him?” she said, changing the subject. “Lila. She’s a herbalist, sells poisons and remedies—old ones, the kind the market deals in. She came here today to meet him. Said he had a ‘sample’ of something ‘new.’ When he didn’t show, she called the cops.” Eva paused, chewing her lip. “Lila’s scared. She’s got a bone token, too. From Marcus. She thinks he’s dead because he broke a deal.” Quinn stood, her joints cracking. “Why would he break a deal? He was in the Veil Market—he knew the rules. No stealing, no backing out.” Eva sounded sad. “Marcus’s daughter. She’s sick. Cancer. Fast. He was desperate. Told me he’d do anything—sell his soul, his firstborn, whatever—to get the cure. I tried to warn him. The market doesn’t work with desperation. It *eats* it.” Quinn looked at the body again. The silver veins were spreading, inching up his neck, like mold. The black blood had dripped onto the concrete, forming a pattern—three circles, overlapping, like a target. She knelt, brought her face closer. The man’s eyes weren’t just open—they were *focused*. On something behind her. “Quinn.” She spun. Eva was staring at the crack in the wall, her hand over her mouth. “What?” Eva took a step back, her satchel heavy in her hands. “The compass. It’s working. The needle—look.” Quinn turned. The needle had stopped spinning. It pointed directly at the crack. And then, faintly, she heard it: a whisper, low and guttural, like wind through a keyhole. Marcus’s eyes flickered. Quinn’s hand went to her holster, but there was no gun here—not in the Veil Market. Just a baton, a handcuff key, and the notepad. Eva grabbed her arm. “It’s a rift. The compass points to rifts. That’s what the codex says. Your codex—*.”* She cut herself off, swallowing hard. “The market moves every full moon. Tomorrow’s the 15th. This platform… it won’t be here in 24 hours. Maybe the rift’s old. Maybe Marcus found it. And the Shade sigils—they’re to keep the rift closed. But he broke them. Let it out.” Quinn’s throat felt tight. The whisper grew louder, a wordless chant, and the silver veins on Marcus’s neck pulsed, matching the rhythm. She looked at the bone token. At the compass. At the crack in the wall. The evidence didn’t add up. A locked platform, a dead man with a spirit bond, a compass pointing to a rift. But Eva was right—someone in the market would have killed Marcus for breaking a deal. But not the way he’d been killed. Not with a spirit loose, not with a rift opening. Unless the killer wasn’t *in* the market. Unless the killer was the one who’d let the rift out. Quinn’s watch beeped. 6:42. She needed to get out, to run a ballistics report on the shard of something sharp found near the body—bone, maybe, from the token. But first, she needed to know. “Evie,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “The Shade sigils. Are they one-time use? Or… can they be broken?” Eva nodded, still staring at the crack. “If the casing’s damaged. The compass is old—centuries, maybe. The runes are carved deep, but if something hits it… hard. Like a bullet. Or a broken bone.” Quinn knelt, pushed the compass toward her. The needle jittered, then pointed at the crack again. Marcus’s eyes rolled back. The silver veins stopped spreading. The whisper died. Eva stepped closer, her nervous habit forgotten. “What’s happening?” Quinn didn’t answer. She stared at the black blood, now drying, flaking. At the bone token, still clamped in Marcus’s hand. At the crack, which was now just a crack, smooth and empty. She picked up the notepad, scribbled a note: *Check Lila’s token. Forged?* Then, *Markus’s daughter. Medical records. ASAP.* Eva leaned over her shoulder. “You think—” Quinn closed the notepad, snapped it shut. “The killer didn’t take the token. They didn’t need to. They wanted Marcus dead *and* the rift open. To let something in. To let something *out*.” Eva’s face paled. “Who would do that?” Quinn stood, adjusted her coat. The air had cooled, the sage scent fading. “Someone who’s tired of the rules. Someone who’s got a debt worse than Marcus’s.” She turned toward the manhole, her boots clanging. Behind her, Eva’s satchel strap snapped tight—no doubt the book on warding formulas falling out, but Quinn didn’t look back. The Veil Market would move soon. Tomorrow night, this platform would be gone, buried under soil and concrete, like it never existed. But the dead didn’t stay buried. Not in places like this. Quinn climbed the ladder, sunlight stinging her eyes. Above, Camden buzzed, oblivious. Some cases, you didn’t solve. You just kept the dead from walking. She pulled out her phone, dialed the desk sergeant. “Get me Lila. And the medical examiner. And find out where Marcus’s daughter lives. Now.” The line crackled. “Yes, Detective.” She hung up, adjusted her watch. 6:47. Time to go. Away from the Veil. Away from the dead. For now.