Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9CXHKHQ9X0J13MVRY750X

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the rickety metal ladder into the dim glow of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Flashlight beams sliced through the dust-choked air, illuminating cracked tiles and rusted tracks that hadn't seen a train in decades. Uniformed officers milled about, their radios crackling with static, while forensics techs in white suits knelt over chalk outlines and evidence markers. The air hung heavy with mildew and something sharper, like ozone after a storm. Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, a habit from her military days, and scanned the scene with sharp brown eyes. This place screamed wrong—officially sealed off for years, yet someone had breached the barriers above and dragged a body down here. Sergeant Wilkes, a burly man with sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill, approached her with a nod. "Detective Quinn. Glad you're here. Dispatch called it in an hour ago. Anonymous tip led us straight to the body. Male, mid-thirties, no ID yet. Looks like a stabbing, but..." She brushed past him, her boots echoing on the platform. "But what?" Wilkes gestured toward the center of the platform, where the body sprawled face-down in a pool of congealed blood. "See for yourself. Knife wound to the chest, clean through. Problem is, the blood's all wrong. Too thick, almost like it's been cooked. And no weapon on site." Quinn crouched beside the corpse, pulling on gloves. The man's skin paled to an unnatural gray, veins bulging like they'd been injected with ink. She tilted his head with a finger, noting the etched symbols on his neck—swirls and lines that resembled no gang tattoo she'd encountered. The platform around him scattered with oddities: shattered glass vials, scraps of parchment with faded runes, and what looked like a brass trinket half-buried under his arm. She picked it up carefully. A small compass, its casing green with verdigris, needle twitching erratically despite no magnetic interference down here. "Something off about this whole setup," Wilkes muttered, hovering behind her. "No signs of struggle. No footprints in the dust except ours and the vic's. It's like he just... appeared here and dropped dead." She straightened, pocketing the compass for now. Her gaze swept the arched ceiling, where faint scorch marks blackened the tiles in patterns that twisted like vines. The evidence nagged at her—too neat, too contained. Eighteen years on the force, and she'd seen her share of staged scenes, but this one whispered of the inexplicable, like the night DS Morris had vanished three years back. Unexplained circumstances, the report said. Supernatural bullshit, her gut insisted. A voice echoed from the far end of the platform, drawing her attention. "Detective? Over here—I think I've found something." Quinn turned. Eva Kowalski stood near a crumbling wall, her curly red hair tucked behind one ear, round glasses perched on her freckled nose. She clutched a worn leather satchel bulging with books, looking every bit the academic out of place among the cops. Quinn knew her vaguely—research assistant from the British Museum, pulled in on odd cases involving artifacts. Wilkes had mentioned consulting her for the runes. Eva waved her over, green eyes bright with urgency. "Harlow—er, Detective Quinn. You need to see this." Eva pointed to a section of wall where bricks had been pried loose, revealing a hidden alcove stuffed with more parchments and vials. "These aren't just random scribbles. They're wards—protective sigils from ancient grimoires. And that body? The symbols on his neck match Sumerian bindings for shadow entities." Quinn crossed her arms, military bearing straight as a ramrod. "Bindings? You're saying this is some cult ritual gone wrong?" Eva adjusted her glasses, tucking a stray curl behind her ear again. "Not a cult. More like a market transaction. Look at the residue on those vials—alchemical compounds, banned stuff. This station? It's not just abandoned. Whispers in the archives call it a nexus point, a spot where... well, things slip through." Wilkes snorted from behind them. "Slips through? Come on, Kowalski. We've got a dead body, not a ghost story. Probably a drug deal. Those vials test positive for hallucinogens, I'll bet. Vic gets high, stabs himself in a frenzy. Evidence points to suicide or accident—blood's coagulated funny because of whatever he ingested." Quinn ignored him for a moment, kneeling to examine the alcove. Dust patterns showed recent disturbance, but no human prints. Just faint, elongated marks, like claws dragged across stone. She pulled out the brass compass again, watching its needle spin wildly, pointing not north but toward the alcove's depths. "And this? Found it under the body. Needle's going haywire." Eva's eyes widened as she took it, fingers tracing the etched sigils on its face. "A Veil Compass. Crafted by Shade artisans—points to supernatural rifts. If it's reacting like this, there's a portal nearby. Or was. This place, it's the Veil Market. Hidden black market for enchanted goods. Moves every full moon, but sometimes echoes linger." Wilkes laughed, shaking his head. "Market? In an old Tube station? You're both seeing things that aren't there. Look, the blood spatter's contained—no arterial spray, which fits a self-inflicted wound. And those marks on the wall? Vandals. Kids break in all the time. We wrap this as a junkie overdose with a knife twist, call it a day." Quinn's jaw tightened. She paced the platform, piecing it together. The body positioned too perfectly, wounds precise but blood unnaturally viscous, as if flash-frozen mid-flow. No drag marks leading in—how had the victim even gotten down here without breaching the surface seals? She stopped at the edge of the tracks, shining her flashlight into the tunnel. Faint glow emanated from the darkness, a shimmer like heat haze over pavement. "Eva, those sigils— they bind shadows, you said. What if the killer wasn't human?" Eva nodded, flipping open a book from her satchel. "Exactly. The Veil Market deals in rifts. Someone could have opened one, let something through. The compass is attuned to that energy—it's why the needle's spinning. Your colleague's interpretation fits a mundane crime, but it ignores the anomalies. No weapon, no entry wounds on the barriers above, and this patina on the compass? Verdigris from exposure to rift essence." Wilkes crossed his arms. "Rift essence? Listen, I've been on this force fifteen years. People kill people. Not shadows or whatever fairy tale you're spinning." Quinn held up a hand, silencing him. She crouched again by the body, lifting the man's sleeve. Underneath, a bone token dangled from a chain—entry requirement for the Market, if Eva's intel held. The pieces clicked: not a random killing, but a deal soured in a place that shouldn't exist. Morris's case flashed in her mind—similar scorch marks at his last known location, unexplained vanishing. Supernatural origins she hadn't understood then, but now... She stood, turning to Eva. "Show me where that compass points strongest." Eva handed it back, needle jerking toward the tunnel. "Down there. But be careful—rifts can pull you in." Wilkes grumbled. "You're not seriously buying this?" Quinn shot him a look, sharp jaw set. "Evidence doesn't lie, Sergeant. Yours adds up to a tidy suicide. Mine? Points to something crawling out of the dark. Let's see which holds." They moved into the tunnel, flashlight beams piercing the gloom. The air grew thicker, charged with that ozone tang. Quinn's watch ticked louder in the silence, her steps measured. Ahead, the shimmer intensified, walls etched with more sigils that glowed faintly. The compass needle stabilized, locking onto a crack in the tunnel floor—a fissure pulsing with ethereal light. Eva whispered. "That's it. A rift echo. Whatever came through killed him, then sealed itself." Quinn knelt, fingers brushing the edge. Heat radiated, but no burn. Deduction solidified: the victim, a Market trader, had summoned something with forbidden alchemy. It backfired, entity struck, left the body as warning. No human killer, explaining the lack of footprints. Wilkes's theory crumbled under the weight of what she saw—supernatural intrusion, just like Morris. "Call in backup," Quinn ordered Wilkes. "But not the usual. We need containment." Wilkes hesitated, then radioed it in. Eva adjusted her satchel, green eyes reflecting the rift's glow. "You believe me now?" Quinn pocketed the compass, its needle still humming. "Belief's got nothing to do with it. Facts do. And these facts say we've missed the real crime—the one hiding in the shadows." The tunnel echoed with their breaths, the rift's pulse a low thrum. Quinn's mind raced, connecting this to her partner's death. Same patterns, same impossibilities. She observed the fissure closer, noting how the light bent unnaturally, defying physics. Others had dismissed Morris's case as accident. Not her. Not anymore. Eva pointed to a scrap of parchment near the crack. "Look—coordinates. For the Market's next location." Quinn snatched it, unfolding the runes. Her brown eyes narrowed. This wasn't over. The clique she suspected—the ones dabbling in this hidden world—they'd slipped up, leaving a trail. She tucked the parchment away, deduction sharpening into resolve. Wilkes shifted. "So what now? We chase ghosts?" "No," Quinn replied. "We chase whatever's real enough to kill." They pressed on, the rift's glow fading behind them, but its implications burned bright in Quinn's thoughts. The evidence had shifted, revealing layers she'd overlooked before. Supernatural or not, justice demanded pursuit.