Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DHWXF8D7SJF6BV8ET5JM

Detective Harlow Quinn ducked under the rusted chain-link fence that cordoned off the entrance to the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Damp air clung to her skin like a second layer, carrying the faint rot of forgotten tunnels. Her boots crunched over broken glass and scattered debris as she descended the crumbling stairs, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. The call had come in anonymous, a tip about a body down here, but something about the location gnawed at her. Abandoned stations weren't unheard of for dumpsites, yet this one felt off—too deliberate, too hidden from the usual vagrant paths. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, noting the time: 2:17 AM. Eighteen years on the force, and instincts like hers didn't lie. The sharp jaw she inherited from her military days tightened as she pushed forward, bearing straight with that old precision drilled into her during basic training. At the bottom, the platform opened up, tiles cracked and peeling underfoot. Police tape fluttered in a draft from nowhere, and floodlights hummed, casting harsh shadows over a cluster of uniforms milling around a chalk outline. No body visible yet—probably already bagged and en route to the morgue. But the scene screamed wrongness. Scorch marks spiderwebbed across the platform walls, black and jagged, like lightning had struck indoors. Shattered vials littered the ground, their contents evaporated into iridescent stains that shimmered unnaturally under the lights. And in the center, a small brass object glinted—a compass, its face etched with strange symbols, needle frozen northward despite the underground disorientation. "Quinn," a voice called from the shadows. Sergeant Ellis, her temporary partner for the night, waved her over. He was a burly man in his fifties, mustache like a broom, always quick with the obvious. "You made it. Bloody mess, this. Victim's a John Doe, mid-thirties, no ID. Looks like he got fried—electrocution, maybe from exposed wiring down here. But get this: no burn source. Techs say the scorch patterns don't match any known electrical fault." Quinn crouched beside the chalk outline, her brown eyes narrowing. The outline showed the body sprawled, arms outstretched, as if reaching for something. She scanned the vials—remnants of some chemical spill, but the colors shifted, blues bleeding into purples without reason. "Wiring? In an abandoned station? Power's been cut for decades." Ellis shrugged, kicking at a shard of glass. "Gang hit, perhaps. Drug deal gone south. Those vials scream lab gear—meth or worse. Doe had track marks, but fresh ones, like he injected right before." She picked up the compass with gloved hands, turning it over. The casing bore a patina of verdigris, old and weathered, yet the needle quivered slightly in her palm, defying the stillness. "This yours?" "Nah, found it clutched in his fist. Some antique, probably. Pawn shop junk." Quinn's gaze flicked to the sigils on its face—protective runes, if her hazy memories from that unsolved case three years back served right. DS Morris had died in a similar setup: unexplained burns, no source. Supernatural origins she couldn't prove, but the doubt festered. She pocketed the compass for now, standing with military snap. "Evidence doesn't line up, Ellis. Scorch marks are radial, like an explosion from within the victim. No residue for accelerants, and those stains? They're moving." Ellis snorted. "Moving? You're seeing things, Quinn. Tired from the late shift? It's a dump job. Perp shocks the guy elsewhere, drags him here to rot." A new figure emerged from the tunnel mouth, curly red hair catching the floodlight glare. Eva Kowalski, all 5'4" of her, adjusted her round glasses and tugged at the worn leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Freckles dusted her cheeks, and she tucked a stray curl behind her left ear—a nervous tic Quinn had clocked during their brief prior encounters. Eva worked the restricted archives at the British Museum, a consultant on occult artifacts for the Met when cases veered weird. Quinn had called her in on a hunch, given the symbols. "Eva," Quinn greeted, voice clipped. "What do you make of this?" Eva knelt beside the stains, green eyes widening behind her lenses. She pulled a notebook from her satchel, scribbling furiously. "Harlow, this isn't your standard murder. Look at these residues—alchemical, not chemical. Banned substances, the kind traded in... well, places off the grid." Ellis crossed his arms. "Alchemical? Come on, Kowalski. You're the museum nerd, but this is real police work. No fairy dust involved." Eva ignored him, tracing a finger near the scorch marks without touching. "The patterns resemble rift burns. Supernatural energy discharge. And that compass you found? It's a Veil Compass—attuned to portals. Points to the nearest rift. This station... it's not just abandoned. Rumors in my circles say it's a hub for the Veil Market. Hidden bazaar, deals in enchanted goods. Moves every full moon, entry via bone token." Quinn's pulse quickened. Veil Market. The name echoed from Morris's last notes, scribbled before he vanished into a similar shadow. She held up the compass, watching the needle twitch. "Rift? Portal? Explain." Eva stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "Think of it like a door to another realm. Energy leaks through, warps reality. Your victim didn't get electrocuted—he crossed something he shouldn't have. Injected a substance to attune himself, maybe, but it backfired. Those vials held essence of shade bloom, illegal enhancer for crossing veils. See how the stains pulse? Residual magic." Ellis laughed, loud and barking. "Magic? Bollocks. Quinn, she's spinning yarns. This is Camden underground, not Hogwarts. Perp's a dealer, victim a junkie. Simple overdose, hallucinogens fry his brain, he wanders in here, touches a live wire we haven't found yet." Quinn paced the platform, boots echoing. She stopped at the far wall, where tiles formed a subtle mosaic—sigils matching the compass. Her sharp jaw clenched. Ellis's interpretation fit the neat police report, but it ignored the impossibilities. No wires exposed, no entry wounds on the body per the prelims she'd skimmed en route. And the compass needle now spun wildly, as if sensing her doubt. "Ellis, check the tunnel for drag marks," she ordered, buying time. He grumbled but complied, flashlight bobbing away. Alone with Eva, Quinn leaned in. "You've seen this before?" Eva nodded, tucking hair again. "In archives. Ancient texts describe markets like this—Veil Market, specifically. Sells info, artifacts, even lives. Your Doe clutched that compass like a lifeline. Maybe he was buying passage, or selling. But something ripped through him. Not human hands." Quinn examined the chalk outline again. Arms outstretched—not in agony, but supplication. Reaching for a token, perhaps? She scanned the ground, spotting a glint under debris: a small bone fragment, carved with runes. Bone token. She snatched it up, feeling a chill race up her arm. "Entry requirement," Eva murmured, peering over. "That proves it. This station hosted the market tonight. Full moon was yesterday— it just shifted." Quinn's mind raced. Morris had chased a lead on "shadow dealers" before his death. Unexplained burns, no body recovered fully—just ashes that defied forensics. If this Veil Market tied in, it explained the clique she'd suspected: a network peddling more than drugs, delving into the impossible. Ellis returned, shaking his head. "No drag marks. Clean entry. Maybe he walked in himself." "Or phased in," Eva countered. "Rift energy displaces matter. No footprints because he materialized." Ellis rolled his eyes. "Quinn, you buying this? We're wasting time. Log it as suspicious death, turf it to narcotics." But Quinn tuned him out, holding the bone token to the compass. The needle steadied, pointing deeper into the tunnels. A faint hum filled the air, like distant thunder. She followed it a few steps, flashlight revealing a wall that shimmered—illusion or barrier? Her hand passed through, cold as ice, emerging into a space that shouldn't exist: stalls remnants, tattered cloths draped over crates, air thick with incense ghosts. "Harlow?" Eva's voice followed, urgent. Quinn pulled back, the shimmer fading. Evidence didn't add up because it wasn't earthly. The victim hadn't been killed here; he'd been torn apart by crossing worlds. And that clique—supernatural criminals using places like this to operate unseen. "Ellis, secure the perimeter," she said, voice steel. "Eva, with me. We're going deeper." Ellis protested. "Deeper? It's a dead end!" "Not anymore." Quinn stepped forward, compass guiding, the bone token warm in her grip. The wall parted like mist, revealing the market's echo—a crime scene expanding into shadows she could finally chase. Eva hurried after, satchel bouncing. "This rift—it's unstable. We could get pulled in." "Then we pull back answers." Quinn's brown eyes gleamed with that old fire, the loss of Morris fueling her. The scorch marks made sense now: not electricity, but veil fire. The vials weren't drugs, but potions. And the compass? A map to the truth. They pressed on, the tunnel twisting unnaturally. Faint voices whispered from the walls, echoes of bargains struck. Quinn spotted more bone tokens scattered, as if a hasty evacuation had occurred. "Market fled when the rift went wrong," she deduced aloud. "Victim caused it? Or victim of it?" Eva nodded, glasses slipping. "Likely a botched deal. Shade artisans craft these compasses—points to rifts, but if tampered, it amplifies energy. Maybe he tried forcing a portal." A sudden gust whipped through, carrying the scent of ozone. The compass needle spun wildly. Quinn halted, spotting a figure's shadow darting ahead—humanoid, but elongated, unnatural. "Police! Stop!" she barked, breaking into a run. The shadow vanished around a bend. Quinn rounded it, finding only a dead end. But the wall pulsed, sigils glowing faintly. She pressed the bone token against it, and reality tore open—a glimpse of bustling stalls, ethereal figures bartering glowing orbs, before it snapped shut. "They're covering tracks," Eva gasped, catching up. "The market's guardians. We need to retreat—" "No." Quinn examined the wall, finding a fresh scorch: identical to the platform's. "This is where he died. Rift opened, sucked him in partially, spat him out burned." Ellis's voice echoed from behind, distant. "Quinn? Where'd you go?" She ignored him, piecing it. The colleague's mundane take blinded him, but Eva's insight cracked it open. Supernatural black market, hidden in London's underbelly. Her suspicions about the clique solidified—this was their playground. A low rumble shook the tunnel. Dust sifted from the ceiling. "Rift collapsing," Eva warned, tucking hair frantically. Quinn grabbed her arm, pulling back. They retreated to the platform, where Ellis waited, bewildered. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "Evidence," Quinn replied, holding up the compass. "Not a gang hit. Something bigger." As uniforms swarmed, Quinn's mind whirred. The victim had sought the Veil Market, compass in hand, token ready. But interference—perhaps from that shadow figure—triggered the rift's fury. Morris's case mirrored this: a portal gone wrong, erasing him. She wouldn't let this one slip. The evidence added up now, in ways the force wouldn't accept. Yet. She'd chase the shadows herself, starting with Eva's archives. The night deepened, but Quinn's watch ticked on, marking the hunt's beginning.