Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY94TM7SQJ9KHGQJYETSSCJ

Harlow’s boot crunched broken terracotta tile across the abandoned Camden Tube station platform, the sound echoing off water-stained brick arches that had not held a train in 47 years. This was The Veil Market’s last known haunt—before the full moon’s rise had forced vendors to pack their enchanted trinkets and banned alchemical vials into unmarked crates and vanish to a new hidden spot. The Market’s residual scent clung to every crevice: burnt myrrh that stung the back of her throat, rust from a hundred discarded metal charms, and a faint, sickly sweet tang she’d come to associate with supernatural residue—same as the tang that had clung to her partner DS Morris’s body three years prior. She flicked her flashlight beam in a military-precision arc, cutting through the thick, dust-mottled dark to land on a crumpled figure slumped against a disused ticket barrier. Her sharp jaw tightened; she tapped the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the tick-tick-tick marking the three minutes she’d spent staring at evidence that refused to cohere into anything the Metropolitan Police’s rulebook could classify. The body was a Veil Market vendor, she’d learned from a reluctant tipster who’d traded the information for a promised reprieve from a minor theft charge. No cuts marred his weathered hands, no bruises bloomed on his neck, but his eyes were frozen wide, pupils dilated to pinpricks as if he’d stared into something that had stripped the breath from his lungs. Beside his outstretched hand lay a small brass compass, its casing coated in a verdigris patina so thick it dulled the protective sigils etched into its face—she’d seen a similar compass in Eva’s occult research books, labeled a Veil Compass, crafted by Shade artisans to point toward the nearest supernatural rift or portal. Eva was perched on a chipped concrete bench ten feet away, her curly red hair catching the flashlight’s glint when she shifted. Her worn leather satchel, stuffed to bursting with Oxford-annotated ancient history tomes and British Museum restricted archive manuscripts, propped open at her feet, a few loose pages fluttering in the faint draft that whispered through the station’s tunnel mouths. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear—her nervous habit, one Harlow had come to recognize as a signal she was wrestling with a puzzle her academic training hadn’t fully prepared her for—round glasses slipping down her freckled nose as she squinted at a dog-eared book in her lap. The coroner’s office faxed their preliminary report an hour ago. Harlow’s flashlight beam snapped to Eva’s face, the light catching the way her green eyes narrowed in frustration. Natural causes. Cardiac arrest, they said. Eva slammed the book shut, the sound echoing off the brick arches. She tucked another strand of hair behind her left ear, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees. They didn’t smell the residue. They didn’t see the compass. Harlow knelt, her knee sinking into a puddle of stagnant water that pooled between two tile cracks. She carefully lifted the Veil Compass by its thin brass chain, her fingers avoiding the sigils—she’d learned the hard way that supernatural objects could leave burns if handled without caution, a lesson she’d picked up after grazing a cursed amulet during a case six months prior. The compass’s needle twitched once, then locked into place, pointing toward a shadowed tunnel mouth that had been boarded up since the station’s closure. The victim’s pockets were emptied. No rift map—his tipster said he’d been haggling over a rare one with a Shade artisan the night before he died. No bone token. Eva stood, her book still clutched in her hand, and crossed the platform to join her. She leaned over the compass, round glasses sliding so far down her nose she had to push them up with her thumb to see the sigils clearly. You can’t enter The Veil Market without a bone token. He couldn’t have come here without one. Either the attacker took it, or he hid it. Harlow’s sharp jaw set harder. She tapped her watch again, the tick-tick-tick louder now in the station’s oppressive silence. The tipster said he left the Market at midnight. No one saw him leave with anyone. No one heard a scream. Eva tucked a third strand of hair behind her left ear, her green eyes darting to the ticket barrier behind the victim. She pointed to a faint, glowing silver scratch on one of the barrier’s metal slats—something that didn’t match the rough, brown scratch marks left by broken tile. That’s not a tile mark. It’s rift residue scarring. Forms when a supernatural portal opens and closes too fast, the energy burning through whatever surface it touches. Harlow stood, her flashlight beam tracing the scar from top to bottom, then sweeping the rest of the barrier. She spotted two more scars, smaller but identical, hidden in the gap between the barrier’s slats. Three scars. Three portal openings? Eva flipped her book open again, turning to a marked page that featured a diagram of the same silver scars, paired with a paragraph in faded Latin. She translated under her breath, then looked up at Harlow. No. One portal, opening and closing three times. That’s a sign someone was trying to force it open—someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Harlow’s mind flicked back to Morris’s body, found in a derelict warehouse three years prior: same wide, terrified eyes, same lack of physical wounds, same silver rift scars hidden on a nearby metal beam. The coroner had called his death “unexplained” and closed the case, but Harlow had never let it rest—she’d spent every spare hour hunting for clues, until a chance encounter with Eva at the British Museum’s restricted archives had led her to The Veil Market’s existence. Morris’s warehouse had three identical scars. Eva’s green eyes softened for a split second— a rare show of sympathy, one Harlow had only seen twice before—before she tucked another strand of hair behind her left ear and refocused on the compass. The Veil Compass’s sigils are supposed to repel rift energy. They’re crafted to keep the holder safe from the portals it points to. Harlow held the compass up to the flashlight beam, squinting at the sigils. She spotted a faint, deep scratch across one of the largest sigils, a scratch that had reversed the sigil’s curved line into a sharp angle. That’s tampered with. Eva leaned in, her breath catching when she saw the scratch. She pulled a magnifying glass from her satchel—one of the many tools she kept for examining ancient manuscripts—and held it over the sigil. Whoever did this reversed the sigil’s purpose. Instead of repelling rift energy, this compass draws it. Harlow’s jaw tightened until her molars ached. She tapped her watch again, the tick-tick-tick marking the moment she connected the vendor’s death to Morris’s. The victim picked up the compass. Thought it was a tool to find the rift map. Instead, it dragged a portal to him. Eva nodded, flipping her book to a page about sigil reversal. She pointed to a passage that described the side effects: instant cardiac arrest, pupils dilated to pinpricks, no physical wounds. That’s the exact cause of death. The rift energy leeches the heat from the body’s core in seconds. No time to scream. Harlow knelt beside the victim again, her fingers brushing his cold, clammy cheek. She’d felt the same cold on Morris’s cheek, the same lack of warmth that had made her realize something was drastically wrong, even before the coroner’s report came back. He’s still cold. Colder than the station’s air, which is 42 degrees Fahrenheit. Eva pulled a digital thermometer from her satchel—another archive tool—and pressed it to the victim’s neck. She frowned at the reading. 31 degrees. Rift energy leaves a residual cold that lingers for 72 hours. Morris’s body was 30 degrees when you found it, right? Harlow nodded, her flashlight beam sweeping the platform again. She spotted a small, bone-colored token tucked under a loose tile near the bench where Eva had been sitting. It was a Veil Market entry token— a carved raven’s talon, the same type she’d used to get into the station that morning. There’s his bone token. Eva crossed to the tile, carefully lifting it to retrieve the token. She turned it over in her hand, examining the carved runes on its surface. He hid it. Didn’t want the attacker to find it. Maybe he knew he was in danger. Harlow stood, tucking the token into her jacket pocket. She held the tampered Veil Compass up again, the needle still locked on the shadowed tunnel mouth. The portal was here. The attacker forced it open three times. Tried to get something from the victim. Eva flipped her book to a page about Shade artisan rules. She pointed to a passage that forbade the sale of tampered Veil Compasses. Shade artisans face banishment if they tamper with their crafts. Whoever did this is either a rogue artisan or someone who stole a compass and modified it. Harlow’s flashlight beam swept the tunnel mouth’s boarded-up planks. She spotted a faint, ink-stained fingerprint on one of the planks—something that didn’t belong in a station that had been abandoned for decades. That’s a fresh print. Eva pulled a fingerprint kit from her satchel— a favor Harlow had done for the British Museum’s security team had earned her the tool— and carefully lifted the print. She tucked it into a sealed envelope, then pulled a tattered map from her satchel, marked with The Veil Market’s known past locations. The next Market location will be a disused factory in Hackney. It moves at full moon rise, which is in 12 hours. Harlow tapped her watch again, the tick-tick-tick marking the start of a countdown. She tucked the Veil Compass into her jacket pocket, then grabbed the rift map she’d found tucked in the victim’s jacket lining (she’d missed it earlier, a mistake she’d corrected when her flashlight beam had caught its faded ink) and flipped through its pages. The victim’s map has a Shade artisan’s name scrawled in the margin. Kael. He’s the one who crafts Veil Compasses. Eva’s green eyes lit up— a sign she’d found a piece of the puzzle. She flipped her own book to a marked page, pointing to a photograph of a Shade artisan with a scar across his left cheek. Kael. He’s been under the Museum’s watch for six months. He’s been stealing restricted archive manuscripts about sigil reversal. Harlow’s military bearing sharpened, every muscle in her body coiling into a state of readiness. She’d spent three years chasing the ghost of Morris’s death; now, she had a name, a location, and a physical clue. We’re going to Hackney. We’re going to confront Kael. Eva tucked a final strand of hair behind her left ear, then stuffed her books and tools back into her satchel, slinging it over her shoulder. She picked up the bone token, turning it over in her hand. We need two tokens to get into the Hackney factory. I can get a second one from a contact at the archive. Harlow’s boot crunched tile as she walked toward the station’s exit, her flashlight beam cutting a path through the dark. The Market’s residual scent still stung her throat, but now it felt like a trail, not a dead end. I’ll meet you at the archive in one hour. Bring your magnifying glass. Bring your books. Bring everything you’ve got on sigil reversal. Eva followed, her own boots tapping softly against the tile. I’ll bring the fingerprint analysis kit too. We can run the print through the Museum’s database on the way. Harlow tapped her watch again, the tick-tick-tick marking the moment she finally felt like she was going to get answers—answers for Morris, answers for the vendor, answers for every unsolved supernatural death the Metropolitan Police had swept under the rug. She pushed open the station’s rusted metal door, stepping into the gray Camden dawn.