Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9A7MG6CJGP4Z9YJ13MPRE

The air tasted of ozone and wet concrete. Not the usual bouquet for a Tuesday. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the slick steps into the abandoned Camden tube station, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the perpetual gloom. The Veil Market. Even the name felt like a dare. Each full moon, it shifted, a phantom bazaar for things best left lost. A bone token had gotten them past the initial gatekeeper, a hulking man who smelled of patchouli and regret. The scene was…contained. Too contained. A single stall, draped in black velvet, lay overturned. Trinkets – glass eyes, tarnished lockets, oddments of bone – were scattered across the damp platform. The victim, a man in a tailored suit that now looked horribly wrong, was sprawled amongst them. No obvious wounds. Just… stillness. PC Davies, young and eager, stood near the body, carefully photographing the scene. He didn’t meet Quinn’s gaze, focused on his task. Good. Let him get on with it. “Report.” Quinn’s voice scraped like flint against stone. Davies jerked, nearly dropping his camera. "Detective Quinn. Victim's name is Alistair Finch, sir. Known collector of… esoteric items. Found by a market vendor this morning. No sign of forced entry, no witnesses. Looks like a heart attack, maybe?” Quinn circled the body, her worn leather watch catching the dim light. Finch’s face was pale, his eyes wide and fixed on something only he had seen. Heart attack felt…clean. Too clean. The station's usual grime coated everything, but around Finch, it seemed disturbed, almost *avoided*. “Heart attack in a market selling powdered dragon’s tooth and bottled shadows? Colour me skeptical, Davies.” Davies cleared his throat. “Well, sir, these people…they might not exactly be forthcoming with medical histories.” “They’re also remarkably discreet about murders occurring within their little haven.” Quinn stopped, her gaze fixed on Finch’s hands. He clutched a single object - a small brass compass. Its casing had a patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with unfamiliar sigils. “What’s that?” she asked, gesturing to the compass. Davies glanced down. “Looks like one of the items from the stall, sir. Some sort of…compass.” Quinn squatted, ignoring the dampness seeping into her trousers. She gently pried Finch’s fingers open. The compass felt cold, almost unnaturally so. "A Veil Compass," a voice said from behind her. Eva Kowalski emerged from the shadows, her curly red hair a startling splash of colour in the gloom. She wore round glasses perched on her nose and carried a worn leather satchel slung across her shoulder. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, a nervous habit Quinn had noted. “Evie. What are *you* doing here?” “I frequent the Market. Research.” Eva offered a tight smile. “I recognized the compass. It’s Shade-made. Quite rare.” "Shade-made?" “Crafted by artisans from the Veil, sir. They deal in objects attuned to supernatural energy. That compass…it doesn’t point north.” She pointed to the needle, which jittered erratically. “It points toward the nearest supernatural rift.” Quinn studied the compass again. Davies hadn’t noticed the faint humming emanating from the device. Of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t looking for it. “Alistair Finch collected esoteric items, you said, Davies?” Quinn asked, not looking at him. “That’s right, sir. Rumour is he had a private collection worth a fortune. All sorts of…oddities.” “Oddities like rifts?” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Was Finch looking for something specific, Eva?” Eva hesitated, her eyes darting around the abandoned platform. “Rumour has it he was obsessed with strengthening the barriers between worlds. He believed the Veil was thinning.” “Thinning how?” “Becoming more permeable. Allowing… things through.” Eva’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He was supposedly researching methods to seal the rifts, or at least control them." Quinn rose, her military precision evident in the smooth movement. She walked over to the overturned stall, examining the scattered trinkets. “Davies, bag everything. Every single item. I want it catalogued and analyzed.” “Yes, sir.” He began to gather the objects, his earlier enthusiasm dampened. “Eva, what else do you know about Finch’s work?” Quinn asked, her voice low and focused. “He was…reckless. He delved into areas he didn’t understand. Ancient summoning rituals, forbidden alchemy…” Eva trailed off, her expression troubled. Quinn stopped at a shard of obsidian, its surface gleaming. It wasn’t like the other items. It felt…resonant. Warmer. “This wasn’t part of the stall’s inventory, was it?” she asked, holding up the obsidian. Eva peered at it, her brow furrowed. “No. That’s… older. Much older. It’s a fragment of a binding stone. Used in containment rituals.” "Containment?" “To hold something *back*.” Quinn turned her attention back to Finch. The stillness didn’t feel like peace now. It felt like a pause. Something had been unleashed, or tried to be. The lack of a struggle, the undisturbed grime…it wasn’t a natural death. It was a cessation. Someone, or *something*, had simply…stopped him. “Davies.” “Sir?” “Check Finch’s pockets. I want his notes, his contacts, anything he was carrying.” Davies immediately complied, carefully searching the victim’s clothing. He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a handful of crumpled receipts. “Anything interesting?” Quinn asked. Davies flipped through the notebook. “Mostly scribbled notes, sir. Formulas, symbols… hard to decipher. And these receipts are all from obscure shops around London. Antique stores, bookshops… places that sell old things.” Quinn glanced at the compass in her hand, the needle still twitching. Finch hadn’t died of a heart attack. He’d died chasing something dangerous. Something that was still out there. And whatever sealed his fate hadn’t wanted to leave a mark. It hadn't wanted anyone to notice. “He wasn't looking to *seal* rifts, was he?” Quinn asked Eva, her tone sharper. Eva’s face paled. She didn't answer immediately. “He tried to open one,” she finally admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear again. “He believed there were… treasures beyond the Veil. Knowledge. Power.” Quinn felt a chill crawl down her spine. The carefully constructed scene, the lack of obvious violence…it was a cover. A meticulously crafted illusion. Someone had made sure Finch’s quest died with him. And they were very, very good at it.