Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9C7AECYZFM4PF1K200A9W

Detective Harlow Quinn flashed her bone token at the grizzled doorman lurking in the shadow of a rusted grate. He grunted, swung the grate aside, and waved her down the slick concrete stairs into the guts of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. The air thickened with the tang of incense and ozone, undercut by something metallic—blood, maybe. Or rust from the exposed rails snaking into blackness. Torches guttered in iron sconces along the platform, casting jittery shadows over stalls draped in black velvet. Merchants hawked vials of glowing sludge and amulets that hummed low threats. The Veil Market pulsed like a black heart, alive with whispers from hooded figures who scattered at the sight of her warrant card. Uniforms cordoned off a central alley between tents, their blue lights fracturing against crystal displays. Quinn ducked under the tape, her worn leather watch ticking against her wrist. Footprints smeared the grimy tiles—too many, overlapping in frantic swirls. A body sprawled amid shattered crates at the alley's end, limbs akimbo, throat torn ragged. "Eva," Quinn barked at the woman crouched by the corpse, curly red hair spilling over a worn leather satchel stuffed with books. "You called this in?" Eva Kowalski straightened, pushing round glasses up her freckled nose. She tucked a strand behind her left ear, green eyes flicking to the wound. "Harlow. Took you long enough. Security found him an hour ago. Vendor named Silas—sold rift-touched relics. Throat ripped clean, but no blood spray. Pockets inside out, stall ransacked." Quinn knelt, gloved fingers tracing the gash. Jagged edges, like claws, but the flesh puckered inward, desiccated. No arterial spatter on the walls, no pooling under the body. She scanned the tiles. Dry. Bone-dry. "Looks like a mugging gone feral," Eva said, gesturing to the chaos. "Perp grabs the good stuff—poof. Silas fights back, gets his throat opened. Classic black market dust-up." Quinn's sharp jaw tightened. She pulled a penlight, swept it over the neck wound. Fibers clung to the edges—translucent, like spider silk, but coarser. Not knife work. Her gaze lifted to the stall's wreckage: splintered wood, overturned jars leaking iridescent slime. A brass casing glinted under debris, verdigris patina flaking off. She fished it out. Small compass, face etched with sigils that prickled her skin. Needle spun lazy circles, then locked north—toward a jagged crack in the platform wall, where shadows writhed unnatural. "Veil Compass," Eva breathed, leaning in. "Points to rifts. Silas peddled them. Why leave it?" Quinn flipped it. Back engraved with Shade runes. Her partner's face flashed—DS Morris, gutted in a warehouse three years back, same dry wounds. Official report: animal attack. Bullshit. "Perp didn't leave it. Dropped it in the scuffle." Quinn stood, boots crunching glass. "But check the angles." Eva frowned, followed her gaze. Bloodless body, sure, but the stall's rear flap hung torn—claw marks scoring the canvas from inside out. "Silas was pulling stock when attacked," Eva countered. "Perp surprises him from behind, rips in, rifles the place. Compass falls from his hand." Quinn paced the alley, torchlight carving her salt-and-pepper crop into stark lines. Footprints clustered at the body's feet—small, bare, splayed toes. Not boots. Not human. She crouched again, pried back the body's stiff fingers. Nails caked black, elongated. "Silas had claws too? Vendor shows me his hands yesterday—manicured, rings on every finger." She snapped photos, zoomed on the tiles. Drag marks feathered away from the body, toward that wall crack. Faint, like something heavy hauled itself. Eva knelt beside her, satchel thumping the ground. "Claws retractable? Or gloves. Markets like this, everyone's packing mods." Quinn ignored her, swept the light along the wall. The crack wept mist, air humming faint. Needle on the compass quivered harder. She pressed palm flat—vibration thrummed up her arm. "Feel that?" She held it out. Eva touched, jerked back. "Rift echo. But the body's here, not sucked through." "Exactly." Quinn's military bearing snapped straight. "No struggle spray, no blood at all. Wound's cauterized almost. Look closer—edges fused, like acid burn." Eva peered, glasses fogging. "Could be a blade with enchantment. Quick cauterize job." Quinn snorted, circled the body. Silas's eyes stared milky, pupils blown wide. She checked pulse points—wrists, femoral. Skin cold, shriveled. Liver spots mottled the arms, unnatural for a man in his thirties. "Desiccated. Drained dry from the inside." She tapped the chest. Ribs poked like xylophone keys. "Perp didn't slash and grab. Sucked him." Eva rocked back on heels. "Vamp? Nah, too theatrical. And those footprints—" "Multiple sets converging." Quinn traced them with her light. Three pairs, small, converging on Silas from the crack. Then diverging, one dragging. "Customers?" Eva shot up, scanned the thinning crowd. Whispers rippled—merchants packing velvet bolts, eyes darting. Quinn holstered the light, gripped the compass. Needle yanked toward the crack. She strode over, shoved canvas aside from a nearby stall. Dust motes swirled. Under the table, a smear—dark, viscous, not blood. She dabbed a sample, sniffed. Coppery, electric. "Silas's blood hit the floor here first." She pointed. "Then... evaporated? Or absorbed." Eva hauled her satchel closer, rifled for a book. Pages crackled—yellowed, annotated. "Absorption glyphs. Some relics do that. Thief plants one, drains the vic, cleans the scene." Quinn's brown eyes narrowed. "Glyphs take prep. Silas invites him in, chats relics. No forced entry on the front." She replayed the scene: Silas hawking wares, back to the wall. Something slithers from the crack—hungry, coordinated. Three attackers? Pack hunters. "Compass attunes to rifts," she muttered, watching the needle dance. "Silas demos it, shows the crack. Things come through." Eva slammed the book shut. "Rifts don't birth claws. Echoes, sure, but solid killers? That's myth." Quinn pocketed the compass, strode to the body. Flipped Silas's jacket. Inside pocket: crumpled note. "Meet at stall, midnight. Rift fresh. Big score. -E." "E?" Quinn held it up. Eva's freckles blanched. "Could be anyone. Eddie the fence? Plenty of E's here." Quinn folded the note, eyes locking on Eva's nervous twitch—hair behind ear again. "You know the archives. Restricted stuff. Ever research Shade artisans?" Eva shrugged, too quick. "Passingly. They craft toys like this compass. Why?" Quinn stepped closer, bearing pinning Eva against a crate. "Because DS Morris died like this. Dry husk, claw marks from nowhere. Coroner said dog pack. I said bullshit. Now Silas. Same MO." Eva's green eyes darted to the crack. Mist curled thicker. "Coincidence," she said. "Market's rough. You chasing ghosts again, Harlow?" Quinn spun the compass on her palm. Needle steadied—straight at Eva's satchel. A faint glow seeped from its flap. "What's in the bag, Eva?" Eva clutched it tighter. "Books. Research." Quinn lunged, yanked the strap. Satchel spilled—tomes thudded, vials rolled. One cracked, green vapor hissing. And there: another compass, twin to Silas's, needle pointing wild. "Two?" Quinn snatched it. Sigils matched. Patina fresh. Eva bolted upright. "Borrowed it! From the archives. Testing theories." Quinn compared them. First needle locked on the crack. Second... spun to Eva's chest. "Supernatural energy," Quinn said, voice steel. "Yours is attuned to you. Or what's following you." The crack popped—wet, like lips smacking. Shadows elongated, small forms skittering just beyond light. Eva froze. "Harlow—" Quinn drew her sidearm, torch sweeping. Footprints etched fresh in dust, circling closer. Three sets. Converging. "Call backup," she hissed. "Now." Eva fumbled her phone, eyes wide behind glasses. Whispers from the crowd swelled—merchants melting into stalls. Quinn backed toward the body, compass burning cold in her fist. The evidence stacked: not mugging, not thief. Rift spawn. Drawn by the compass. By Eva. One shadow broke free—hunched, claws clicking tiles. Needle whipped toward it. Quinn fired. Flash cracked the dark. The thing screeched, darted back. But two more lunged from the mist, eyes gleaming rift-blue. Eva screamed, "The sigils! On the compass—activate!" Quinn twisted the casing. Sigils flared gold. Air warped, shadows recoiling. The crack widened, hungry maw gaping. More claws scraped. Quinn grabbed Eva's arm. "Run. Explain later." They sprinted for the stairs, bullets barking behind. Merchants howled, market erupting chaos. Compass needles spun mad, rifts bleeding through. Uniforms poured down, too late. Quinn shoved Eva ahead, glanced back. Silas's body twitched—eyes snapping open, milky no more.