Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9BFDQD95TZG3VGCNWWPD0

Detective Harlow Quinn flashed her badge at the makeshift barricade, the uniform guarding the derelict entrance to the old Camden Town Tube station stepping aside without a word. Rain slicked the concrete stairs leading down, her boots echoing in the stale air thick with mold and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. She checked her worn leather watch: 2:17 a.m. The call came in two hours ago: body in an abandoned station, unauthorized access, possible homicide. Her jaw tightened as she descended, flashlight cutting through the gloom. Tunnels branched off the platform, graffiti scarred the tiled walls, but fresh boot prints in the dust led deeper, toward a chain-link fence ripped open like paper. Beyond it, flickering torchlight danced. Voices murmured. She ducked through the tear, hand on her holster. Eva Kowalski crouched near a sprawl of crates and tarps, her curly red hair spilling over round glasses as she prodded a brass casing with gloved fingers. Freckles stood out under the harsh light of her headlamp. Her worn leather satchel lay open nearby, books spilling onto the cracked floor. The Veil Market—Quinn had heard whispers, black market for oddities, but this? Bodies of men in hoodies littered the space, throats slashed clean, blood pooling in unnatural spirals that defied gravity, climbing the walls in thin rivulets. "Detective Quinn." Eva tucked a curl behind her left ear, green eyes flicking up. "Museum consult. They pulled me in for the artifacts." Quinn scanned the scene. Six vics, all male, mid-30s, dressed like street dealers—leather jackets, heavy chains. Stalls overturned: vials of glowing liquid shattered, amulets crushed underfoot, ledgers soaked in blood. Central body clutched a small brass compass, verdigris patina gleaming, needle spinning wild. "Looks like a deal soured. Territorial hit." Eva straightened, snapping off her gloves. "Buyers crossed a vendor. Knives out, quick work. These spirals? Panic slashes, arterial spray hitting at angles." Quinn knelt by the compass body, noted the lack of defensive wounds. Clean cuts, no hesitation marks. Air hummed, electric. She lifted the casing—sigils etched deep, needle quivering toward a shadowed alcove. No exit wounds on any corpse. Blood trails led inward, not out. "Robbery motive holds." Eva gestured at empty shelves. "High-value stuff gone: alchemicals, tokens. Killer grabs loot, bolts." Quinn's brown eyes narrowed. She traced a blood spiral with her finger, gloved tip coming away sticky. Patterns looped precise, like calligraphy, converging on that alcove. No footprints scattered the dust there—just a faint shimmer, heat haze in cold air. She stood, military precision in her stance, salt-and-pepper crop brushing her sharp jaw. "Check the entry." Quinn pointed to the fence. "Ripped from inside. No drag marks from heavies hauling bodies. Blood flows uphill, against the platform slope." Eva peered closer, tucking hair again. "Adrenaline spray. Bodies twitched post-mortem. Common in stabbings." Quinn paced the perimeter. Torch sconces still burned, unextinguished. Wax dripped in perfect cylinders, flames blue at edges. She sniffed—sulfur undertone. One stall intact: bone tokens stacked neat, entry passes untouched. Killer ignored them. "Victims armed." Quinn lifted a jacket flap on the nearest. Switchblade, half-drawn. "Froze mid-pull. All of 'em." Eva nodded. "Ambush. Pros hit fast, they never cleared leather." Quinn's watch ticked loud in the hush. She followed the compass needle's twitch, boots crunching glass. Alcove loomed: arched tunnel mouth, tiles blackened as if scorched. Needle steadied, pointing dead center. She shone her light—empty, but air warped, a ripple like water disturbed. "Compass attuned to rifts." Eva edged closer, satchel strap slipping. "Veil Market specialty. Points to portals, thin spots. This one's humming." Quinn shot her a look. "Portals. Right. And the blood dances ballet because... magic?" Eva adjusted her glasses. "Call it physics we don't grasp. These men trafficked supernaturals—enchanted goods, rift-touched info. Hit was retaliation. Rival crew seals the breach after." Quinn crouched at the alcove edge. Tiles vibrated under her palm, warm. Blood spirals framed it exact, as if painted to outline a door. No tool marks, no charring inconsistent with knives. She recalled DS Morris—three years back, similar scene, wounds that knit themselves shut before autopsy. Unexplained. "Look here." Quinn waved Eva over. "Needle spun wild on the body. Stopped when I lifted it. Now locks on this." Eva leaned in, breath fogging. "Rift echo. Residual energy. Killer used it—stepped through, pulled the bodies' life force or whatever. Explains no struggle." Quinn traced a sigil on the compass face. Protective runes, standard warding. But faint scratches underneath, fresh. She pocketed it, stood. "Bodies positioned radial, facing in. Like they walked into a woodchipper willingly." Eva snorted. "Group hypnosis? Occult angle fits the market." Quinn circled back to the central corpse. Jacket pocket bulged—ledger peeked, pages warped but legible. She tugged it free, flipped under light. Entries: "Shade artisan delivery, Veil Compass batch, rift stable till dawn." Last line: "Quinn sniffing—evac." Her gut twisted. "They knew I was coming." Eva peered over her shoulder. "Clique tip-off? You lean on informants." Quinn snapped the ledger shut. Blood on the page glowed faint, letters shifting. Illusion? No—ink reacting. She dropped it, wiped her glove. "Evidence chain breaks here. No casings, no prints viable in this dust. But spirals match no blade angle from standing height." She knelt again, measured a cut with her multi-tool. Depth uniform, 3 inches, serrated but cauterized edges. Plasma? Her light caught something: on the alcove floor, a patina smear matching the compass verdigris. "Metal dragged here." Quinn pointed. "Compasses don't slash throats." Eva frowned, tucking hair rapid. "Multiple attackers. One distracts with the toy, others carve." Quinn rose, shone light up the tunnel curve. Tiles gleamed wet, but dust dry. Water? No drip sound. Shimmer pulsed once, faint moan escaping—like wind through bone. "Listen." Quinn held breath. Silence pressed. Eva shook her head. "Acoustics. Echo off the tiles." Quinn's jaw clenched. She recalled Morris's file—throat wound identical, partner vanished into thin air per witnesses. "Supernatural black market. Bone tokens for entry. They didn't fight because the threat came from inside the fence." Eva shifted. "Vendor grudge. Internal beef." Quinn stepped to the alcove, pressed palm flat. Heat surged, vision blurring—flashes: hooded figures circling, chanting low, compass needles aligning like spears. Throats opened not by steel, but shadow tendrils uncoiling from the arch. She yanked back, breath sharp. "Not knives. Rift weaponized." Eva's eyes widened. "You saw—" "Compass scratches." Quinn pulled it out, angled light. "Not random. Pattern matches the sigils, inverted. Someone tuned it wrong—opened the rift deliberate." Eva grabbed her satchel, rifled books. "Warding reversal. Shade craft. Pulls energy in, shreds from ether." Quinn nodded once. "Victims triggered it. Knew I closed in, panicked, activated their own trap. Self-inflicted massacre." Blood spirals pulsed in sync with the needle. Alcove hummed louder, tiles cracking faint. Eva whispered, "It's waking." Quinn holstered her light, drew sidearm. "Ledger named me. They called it down on themselves." The shimmer tore wider, shadows thickening.