Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8YC0RQAB7W0W3MGYNXDFK

The stairwell reeked of damp concrete and something older—something metallic, like rusted blood. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the strap of her satchel as she descended, her boots echoing hollowly against the cracked tiles. The air grew thicker with each step, pressing against her skin like a held breath. This wasn’t a standard crime scene. It wasn’t even a standard location. She’d been called to an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, though the address the dispatch had given her didn’t match any official records. No signs, no markers, just a set of rusted gates at the end of a dead-end alley, guarded by a man who hadn’t spoken a word. He’d pressed a bone token into her palm—small, smooth, carved with a spiral that seemed to shift when she looked at it too long. One touch, and the gates had swung open as if on silent hinges. Now, standing in the flickering glow of a single bulb dangling from a wire, Quinn took in the scene. The body was sprawled near the center of the platform, a man in a tailored suit, his throat slit ear to ear. No signs of struggle, no defensive wounds. Just the clean, precise cut of a blade. But that wasn’t what had brought her here. It was the *other* body. Lying a few feet away, half-hidden beneath a collapsed stack of crates, was a second figure—tall, gaunt, dressed in black. The skin was too pale, the fingers too long, the joints bending at angles that made Quinn’s stomach tighten. No pulse. No breath. No blood, though the throat was just as neatly severed. She crouched, her gloved fingers brushing the collar of the second corpse. The fabric was fine, almost silk-like, but it didn’t tear under her touch. No fibers snagged. No weight to it. Like it was made of something that wasn’t quite *there*. “You’re staring at the wrong one,” a voice said from behind her. Quinn didn’t flinch. She stood slowly, turning to face the figure leaning against the wall—a younger detective, his badge reading *DS Whitaker*. He had a notepad in hand, his pen hovering over a page of scribbled notes. “This isn’t a homicide,” Whitaker continued, gesturing vaguely at the scene. “It’s a suicide. The guy in the suit did it, then—” he shrugged, “—whatever *that* is, happened after.” Quinn’s gaze flicked back to the second body. “You’re telling me a man slit his own throat, then was joined by a corpse that doesn’t bleed, doesn’t weigh anything, and wasn’t here when the first body was discovered?” Whitaker exhaled through his nose, like she was being deliberately obtuse. “Look at the angle of the blade. The first guy was right-handed. The cut’s too precise for a lefty. And the second body? That’s not a person. That’s a *thing*. Something that got dragged in after.” Quinn ignored the dismissal in his tone. She moved closer to the first body, crouching again. The suit was expensive—bespoke, probably. The cufflinks were silver, etched with a symbol she didn’t recognize. She reached for them, then hesitated. The skin around the wrists was unmarked, but the flesh beneath was too smooth, too cold. Like the second corpse. She stood abruptly. “You’ve got no photos of the scene before the second body was found?” Whitaker blinked. “Of course we do. But—” “Show me.” He hesitated, then pulled a phone from his pocket, tapping through a series of images. The first few were standard—wide shots of the platform, the body in the suit. Then, in the third photo, something shifted. In the background, near the edge of the platform, a dark shape stood just out of frame. Too tall. Too still. Quinn’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Zoom in.” Whitaker did, and the shape resolved into the second corpse, standing perfectly still, its long fingers resting at its sides. But in the next photo, taken seconds later, it was gone. “That’s impossible,” Whitaker muttered. Quinn didn’t answer. She was already moving, her boots crunching over broken glass and something wetter. She knelt beside the crates the second body had been half-buried under, running her fingers along the edges. The wood was old, warped, but the nails holding them together were fresh. Too fresh. She pulled one free, holding it up. The metal was warm to the touch. “These weren’t here before,” she said. Whitaker frowned. “What are you—?” “Someone staged this.” Quinn stood, her voice low. “The first body was killed, then the second was *placed* here. But not by the first killer. By someone else.” Whitaker’s pen stilled. “You’re saying this is a setup?” Quinn’s gaze flicked to the bone token still clutched in her pocket. “I’m saying we’re not dealing with a murder. We’re dealing with a *message*.” A sound cut through the air—a low, rhythmic *clicking*, like bones knocking together. Quinn’s head snapped toward the tunnel leading deeper into the station. The light flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to twist unnaturally. Whitaker followed her gaze, his face pale. “What the hell was that?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was already moving, her hand slipping into her satchel. Her fingers closed around the Veil Compass—small, brass, its needle spinning wildly before settling with a sharp *click*. The direction pointed straight into the dark. “Stay here,” she said. Whitaker opened his mouth to protest, but Quinn was already stepping into the tunnel, her pulse steady despite the weight of the unknown. The air grew colder, thicker, like she was stepping into a different kind of space. The walls seemed to breathe, the shadows deepening into shapes that weren’t quite right. Then she saw it. A rift. Not a door. Not a portal. A *tear* in the air, jagged and uneven, like someone had reached in and ripped a piece of the world away. And beyond it— Movement. Something was coming through. Quinn’s hand tightened around the compass. The needle spun again, then stilled, pointing deeper into the dark. She took a step forward, then another, her boots silent on the concrete. The thing that emerged from the rift was tall, its limbs too long, its skin stretched too tight over bones that didn’t quite fit. It didn’t scream. It didn’t even breathe. It just *stood*, its hollow eyes fixed on her. Then it smiled. And Quinn realized— This wasn’t the first time. She’d seen this before. In her dreams. In the moments before she’d lost Morris. In the way the light bent wrong at the edges of her vision when she wasn’t looking. The thing in the tunnel took another step forward, and Quinn’s hand flew to her side, fingers brushing the grip of her service pistol. But she didn’t draw. Not yet. Because she knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in her veins, that bullets wouldn’t stop this. Not here. Not now. The thing tilted its head, and for the first time, Quinn noticed the mark on its throat—a sigil, carved into the flesh, glowing faintly in the dark. The same sigil as the cufflinks. The same sigil as the bone token in her pocket. She exhaled slowly, her mind racing. This wasn’t a crime scene. It was a *trap*. And she’d just walked into it.