Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9568QQGT4B4RND3DAV1RX

Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs into the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, her worn leather watch ticking against the damp air. Flashlights from the forensic team cut through the gloom, casting jagged shadows on graffiti-scarred walls that pulsed with faint, unnatural glows. The air hung thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, like blood mixed with brimstone. This wasn't any ordinary crime scene. The Veil Market had surfaced here two nights ago, its stalls of enchanted trinkets and whispered deals drawing the city's underbelly before vanishing at dawn. Now, a body lay sprawled amid shattered vials and singed fabrics, and the entry point—a concealed grate marked with a bone token—still hummed with residual energy. Uniformed officers cordoned off the perimeter, their faces pale under the harsh beams. Quinn ducked under the tape, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair brushing the low ceiling. At 41, with 18 years of service etched into her sharp jaw, she moved with military precision, eyes scanning the chaos. The market's layout defied logic: stalls folded into impossible angles, shelves groaning under jars of writhing shadows. The victim, a wiry man in a threadbare coat, clutched a small brass compass in his rigid fist. Its face, etched with protective sigils and patinaed verdigris, pointed not north, but toward a cracked wall where faint ripples distorted the air like heat haze. "Detective Quinn," a voice called from the cluster of techs. Sergeant Patel, her colleague for the last six months, straightened from his crouch beside the body. Mid-thirties, stocky build, always with a notebook in hand—he'd been first on scene after a tip from a junkie who'd stumbled out raving about "ghost lights." Patel wiped sweat from his brow. "Glad you're here. This place gives me the creeps. Looks like a straight robbery gone bad. Purse slashed, pockets turned out. Stabbed once, clean through the heart. No weapon found." Quinn knelt beside the corpse, gloved hands hovering over the compass. The needle quivered, as if alive. She pried open the man's fingers, noting the rigor had set in unevenly—stiff in the limbs, but his torso felt unnaturally pliable, almost warm. Blood pooled beneath him, yet it hadn't spread as it should on the uneven stone floor. Edges curled inward, like the liquid retreated from something. "Robbery," she echoed, voice flat. "What about the market? Witnesses?" Patel shrugged, flipping his notebook. "Place cleared out fast after the full moon shifted it. Couple of vendors hung back, but they clammed up. Said he was haggling over that trinket there—the compass. Buyer got spooked, pulled a knife. Classic black market squabble." She rose, boots crunching on fragments of a broken vial that leaked a viscous, glowing residue. It ate into the stone, tiny fissures spiderwebbing outward. Not acid—something else. Her gaze swept the stall behind the body: shelves lined with bone carvings, vials of iridescent powders, a ledger half-burned but legible in spidery script. Entries listed "rift dust" and "shade bindings," prices in untraceable crypto. The victim's coat bore scorch marks, not from fire, but from cold—frost patterns etched into the fabric, blooming like ferns. "Doesn't track," Quinn said, pointing to the blood. "Pool's too contained. Gravity should've pulled it wider on this slope." She traced the edge with her finger, feeling a subtle stickiness, as if the liquid clung to an invisible barrier. Patel frowned, leaning in. "Contaminants from the market junk, maybe. Those powders could be coagulants. Look, the stab wound's textbook—single thrust, no hesitation. Killer knew anatomy." Quinn ignored the wound for now, her brown eyes narrowing on the compass again. She lifted it free, the casing cool against her palm. The needle swung lazily toward the wall, where the air shimmered. A rift? Her partner's death three years back flashed in her mind—DS Morris, vanished during a raid on a similar haunt, body never found, just echoes of screams and impossible shadows. Official report called it a gas explosion. She knew better. Supernatural, they whispered in the precinct. Madness. Footsteps echoed from the stairs, hurried and light. Eva Kowalski emerged from the gloom, curly red hair frizzing in the humidity, round glasses fogged. At 5'4", she looked swallowed by the space, her worn leather satchel bulging with books and scribbled notes. Freckles dusted her cheeks, and she tucked a stray curl behind her left ear—a tell Quinn had clocked during their reluctant consultations. Eva worked the British Museum's restricted archives, a research assistant with occult leanings, pulled in on "unusual" cases like this. Aurora's childhood friend, though Quinn kept that detail filed away; the girl was a wildcard, too eager to chase myths. "Detective," Eva said, breath catching as she spotted the body. She adjusted her satchel, eyes wide behind the lenses. "I got your call. The Veil Market—it's active again. Bone token entry, right? This station's a known node; it shifts every full moon." Patel shot her a sidelong glance. "Consultant Kowalski. Stick to the books. We're treating this as homicide." Quinn held up the compass. "What's this point to, Eva? Not magnetic north." Eva's green eyes lit with recognition. She stepped closer, careful around the tape. "Veil Compass. Shade-crafted, attunes to rifts—portals between realms. That wall? It's a weak point. Energy bleeds through." She pointed to the ripples, her voice steady despite the nervous tuck of her hair. "The victim's no ordinary thief. Look at his veins— they bulge blue, like rift frostbite. He wasn't stabbed. That wound's an exit, not entry." Patel's laugh barked short. "Portals? Come on. Evidence says blade. Toxicology will confirm poison or nothing. This market's just a flea market for drugs and fakes." Quinn tuned him out, circling the body. The scorch on the coat—frost, yes. She peeled back the fabric with a probe, revealing skin mottled with dark veins that pulsed faintly, as if ink swam beneath. No external wounds save the chest puncture, yet blood volume seemed low. She checked the man's neck: two puncture marks, needle-thin, hidden under the collar. Not hypodermic. Fangs? No. Something finer. "Patel, bag the residue from that vial. Test for anomalies." She straightened, facing the wall. The compass tugged her hand toward it. She pressed palm flat against the stone—cold seeped through, then a vibration, like a distant train that wasn't there. The air thickened, carrying whispers, fragments of voices in no language she knew. Eva knelt beside the ledger, pages fluttering in a breeze from nowhere. "He was buying rift access. Last entry: 'Compass trade for portal key. Buyer: Shade emissary.' Shades don't use knives. They phase—pass through flesh, pull life essence." She glanced up, freckles stark against flushed skin. "The 'stab' is a tear from the inside out. Evidence adds up if you see the layers." Patel snorted, snapping photos. "Layers? It's a costume shop brawl. Victim pisses off a dealer, gets shanked. End of story. No ghosts, no portals." Quinn's mind raced, piecing fragments. The blood's containment—perhaps a ward, etched into the floor in sigils matching the compass face. She scraped at one with her boot; it glowed briefly, then faded. The man's eyes, open and glassy, reflected not the flashlights, but a swirl of stars, impossible in this depth. Deduction clicked: no robbery. The compass wasn't stolen; it was bait. Someone—or something—lured him here to test the rift. "Check his pockets again," Quinn ordered Patel. He grumbled but complied, pulling out a crumpled note: coordinates to another station, dated tomorrow's full moon. No cash, no wallet. Just a bone token, slick with residue. Eva stood, satchel thumping against her hip. "The compass points to the nearest rift because that's where the killer went. Through the wall. It's not murder—it's extraction. They took something from him, left the shell." Patel shook his head. "Extraction? You're spinning fairy tales. Forensics don't lie—blade angle matches a standard switchblade." Quinn ignored the jab, her sharp jaw set. She replayed the scene: victim arguing, compass in hand. Flash of cold, then collapse. No blood spray—because it evaporated into the rift. The frost on the coat: residue from phasing. Veins blue from essence drain, not poison. The puncture? Echo of the tear. Others saw surface—knife, theft. She saw the weave beneath. "Bag the compass for spectral analysis," she said. "And get a team on that wall. Non-invasive scans only." Patel muttered but nodded, signaling a tech. Eva lingered, tucking hair again. "Harlow—Detective— this ties to your old case. Morris. The shadows in the report..." Quinn's watch ticked louder in the silence. "Not now." But the whisper from the wall echoed Morris's last words: "It's pulling me in." The evidence didn't add up because it wasn't all here. The killer hadn't fled—they'd slipped between. The team bustled, lights sweeping. Quinn stepped back, compass heavy in evidence lock. The market's hum faded, but the ripples held. She'd seen what they missed: the Veil wasn't market. It was door. And someone had left it ajar.