Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY96VT8WH4KSCTWX85GJM07

Rain slicked the grimy concrete of the abandoned tube platform. Water dripped from the curved ceiling, echoing in the cavernous space. The air tasted metallic, thick with dampness and something else– something indefinable, faintly floral, yet unsettling. Detective Harlow Quinn ignored the chill seeping into her bones, her gaze sweeping across the tableau before her. A body lay sprawled near a disused ticket booth, a man in a bespoke suit, his face frozen in a silent scream. Not a violent scream, not one of fear, but of… surprise? His eyes were wide, fixed on a point directly above him. A single, crimson stain bloomed across his crisp white shirt. “Clean puncture,” Sergeant Davies said, his voice echoing too loudly. He gestured towards the wound. “Looks like something sharp. One swift strike.” Quinn knelt, careful not to disturb anything. The man’s expensive shoes were spotless, his briefcase lay untouched beside him. No signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds. Just the stark, unsettling calm of a life extinguished. “Anything on him?” Quinn asked, already knowing the answer. “Wallet, phone, keys. All in order. ID says Alistair Finch. Investment banker. Lives in Kensington.” Davies offered. He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand over his thinning hair. "Strange place for him to end up, wouldn’t you say?” Quinn grunted, her eyes tracing the perimeter of the platform. The walls were covered in faded advertisements for long-forgotten travel destinations. Scrawled graffiti hinted at past inhabitants, a mix of teenage rebellion and something darker, something with symbols she didn’t recognize. “Strange doesn’t begin to cover it,” Quinn murmured, pulling on a latex glove. Her fingers brushed against something small and metallic near the victim's hand. She picked it up. A small brass compass. The casing was dull with verdigris, the face etched with intricate, swirling sigils. The needle spun wildly before settling, not north, but pointing… up. “What is it?” Davies peered over her shoulder. “A compass,” Quinn stated, rotating it slowly. It hummed faintly in her hand, a vibration she felt more than heard. "Not one I recognize." A voice cut through the stillness. “Impressive, isn't it?” Detective Inspector Mallory, Quinn’s immediate superior, approached, his face grim. He wore a tailored suit that seemed out of place in the abandoned station. "The brass is a tell. Shade artisan. Very rare, very expensive.” Quinn turned, her brown eyes locking onto Mallory’s. “So, a collector’s item? Why would Finch have one?” Mallory shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Maybe he was collecting. Or maybe it was a gift. Doesn’t mean a thing, Quinn. Looks like a simple mugging gone wrong. He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have, someone panicked.” “Simple?” Quinn frowned, rising to her feet. “There’s nothing simple about this. No forced entry, no sign of a struggle. And this,” she held up the compass, “doesn’t scream random robbery.” She scanned the platform again, her military precision kicking in. Her gaze settled on a patch of shimmering distortion near the ceiling, almost invisible against the damp concrete. It flickered, like heat rising from asphalt, and for a moment, Quinn could swear she saw something move within it—a fleeting glimpse of impossible geometry. "I think we're missing something," Quinn declared, ignoring Mallory’s dismissive sigh. "Look at the angle of the wound. It’s not a downward strike. It’s… upward. As if he was attacked from above.” Davies squinted, examining the body more closely. “You’re saying… someone dropped from the ceiling?” “Possibly. Or something,” Quinn corrected. She pointed to the shimmering distortion. “That’s our ‘something’." Mallory scoffed. “You’re reaching, Quinn. It’s a trick of the light. This place is falling apart." Suddenly, Eva Kowalski appeared, pushing her way through the small crowd of uniformed officers. Her curly red hair was pulled back in a messy bun, her round glasses perched on her nose. She clutched her worn leather satchel, her freckled complexion flushed with urgency. “Harlow! I… I need to talk to you,” Eva blurted out, her nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her left ear pronounced. “About this place. About what it *is*.” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “What’s that, Evie? You're researching abandoned tube stations now?” Eva ignored the sarcasm. "This isn't just an abandoned station, Harlow. This is... it aligns. With historical records I've been researching. The alignments… the full moon…" She fumbled with the straps of her satchel. “They converge here. It’s a nexus point.” Mallory rolled his eyes. “Here we go," he muttered under his breath. “The occult expert.” Quinn silenced him with a look. She'd learned long ago to trust Eva's instincts, even when they seemed outlandish. Eva’s expertise in ancient history and forgotten lore was often surprisingly relevant. "Explain," Quinn demanded. "The Veil Market," Eva said, her voice low and urgent. "It moves every full moon. The records indicate it often manifests in places where the veil between worlds is thin. Abandoned, forgotten spaces—like this." Davies looked utterly bewildered. “The Veil Market? What in God’s name is that?” “A black market,” Quinn explained, her gaze fixed on Eva. “For… unusual goods. Things you can’t buy on the high street.” Eva nodded. “Enchanted items, alchemical substances, information… things that shouldn’t exist.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a worn, leather-bound book. She flipped through the pages, stopping at a faded illustration. "Bone tokens. That's what you need to enter." "Bone tokens?" Quinn repeated, her mind racing. The compass. The strange wound. The shimmering distortion. It was all starting to coalesce into a disturbing picture. “They’re used as currency. As proof of intent. To access the Market,” Eva clarified. “It appears Finch was here for a reason. He had access.” Quinn's eyes fell on the compass again. The sigils on its face seemed to pulse faintly. The needle still pointed upwards, toward the distortion. “This compass,” Quinn said slowly, “it’s not just pointing north. It’s pointing… towards something else. Something supernatural.” She felt a prickle of unease crawl down her spine. She knew this feeling – it had haunted her ever since the case that took her partner. Mallory remained unconvinced. “This is ridiculous. We’re chasing shadows, Quinn. A dead investment banker, a crazy woman with a book, and a brass trinket. Let's focus on finding the actual killer. Someone with a knife." Quinn ignored him, her gaze returning to the shimmering distortion. It seemed to intensify, blurring the concrete wall behind it. She noticed something new. Faint, almost imperceptible, scratches on the wall directly beneath the distortion. Scratches that looked… otherworldly. “Davies,” Quinn ordered, her voice sharp. “Get forensics down here. I want those scratches analyzed. And Evie, I need to know everything you can tell me about the Veil Market. Everything.” She approached the distortion cautiously, the compass humming louder in her hand. The floral scent intensified, almost overpowering. Something was definitely wrong. This wasn't a simple mugging gone wrong. This was something far more complex. Far more dangerous.