Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9KR9BSGFVR1CC9HASC4PN

The air in the abandoned Tube station was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something older—something metallic, like old blood left to rust. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, her boots crunching on shattered glass that glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights. The station had been sealed off for years, but the Veil Market had found a way in, carving its presence into the bones of the place. The walls were scrawled with sigils, some fresh, others faded, their edges worn by time or deliberate erasure. She exhaled through her nose, the precision of her breath the only thing steadying her. DS Morris would’ve hated this. The thought hit her like a physical blow, sharp and sudden. Three years since his death—three years since the case that had unraveled like a cheap suit, threads snapping under pressure. They’d been chasing a lead on a string of disappearances, something tied to the occult, something *wrong*. And then he was gone. One minute, he was beside her, his sharp wit cutting through the bullshit of the force. The next, he was just… gone. The official report had called it an accident. A fall. A misstep in the dark. But Harlow knew better. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. The time read 3:17 AM. Too early for this. Too early for the kind of thing that dragged you into the dark. A figure moved in the shadows near the platform’s edge. Eva Kowalski, her red curls tangled from running her hands through them, her round glasses fogging slightly in the cold. She turned, her green eyes wide behind the lenses, and Harlow could see the way her fingers twitched at her sides, as if she wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure she should. “You’re late,” Eva said, her voice barely above a whisper. Harlow didn’t answer right away. She let her gaze sweep the scene—the body sprawled near the tracks, the way the blood pooled unnaturally dark, the way the victim’s fingers were curled into claws. The medical examiner’s team was already here, their white suits stark against the grimy walls. One of them looked up, nodding at Harlow before turning back to his work. “Took me long enough to get the bone token,” Harlow said finally, her jaw tight. “Market doesn’t exactly welcome uninvited guests.” Eva’s freckled face paled. “You shouldn’t have come.” “Someone had to.” Harlow stepped closer, her boots scuffing against the gravel. The body was a man, mid-thirties, dressed in a suit that looked like it had been tailored for someone taller. His tie was loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds. Just… stillness. Too still. “Cause of death?” Harlow asked, crouching beside the body. The ME, a woman with a no-nonsense bob, glanced at her. “Preliminary? Looks like a heart attack. But the tox screen’s coming back weird. Something in his system that doesn’t match any known drug.” Harlow’s stomach twisted. “What kind of weird?” “Like, *magic* weird,” Eva muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve seen this before. Not here, but—” “Not now, Evie.” Harlow kept her voice low, but her eyes never left the body. The man’s skin was too pale, almost waxy. His lips were blue-tinged, like he’d been dead for hours. But the rigor mortis wasn’t right. It was too relaxed, like his muscles had given up all at once. She reached into her satchel, pulling out a pair of latex gloves before slipping them on. Then, carefully, she turned the man’s hand over. His palm was smooth, unmarked—except for a faint, almost imperceptible sigil burned into his skin. A circle with three lines intersecting it. A ward. Or a brand. Harlow’s pulse spiked. She’d seen that symbol before. In her partner’s case file. In the margins of an old grimoire Eva had shown her once, back when she was still trying to convince Harlow that the world wasn’t just cops and robbers. “What is it?” Eva’s voice was tight. Harlow didn’t answer. Instead, she stood abruptly, her gaze snagging on the far wall where the sigils were thickest. Someone had been here before. Someone who knew what they were doing. The ME cleared her throat. “Detective, we’re going to need to move the body. And you’re contaminating the scene.” Harlow ignored her, stepping toward the tracks. The rails were rusted, the ties rotted. But beneath the grime, she saw something else—a faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from pavement. She crouched, pressing her palm just above the ground. A rift. Not a portal. Not a doorway. But a tear. A place where the world had split open just enough to let something through. She pulled the Veil Compass from her pocket, the brass casing cool against her fingers. The needle spun wildly before settling, pointing toward the tracks. Toward the rift. Eva gasped. “You didn’t—” “I had to know.” Harlow’s voice was flat. “And now I do.” The ME sighed. “Detective, if you’re not going to treat this like a crime scene—” “It *is* a crime scene,” Harlow snapped. “But not the kind you’re looking for.” She stood, her eyes flicking to the body again. The man’s suit. His polished shoes. The way his hands were folded neatly over his chest. This wasn’t a random killing. This was a message. And she was the only one who’d be able to read it. Eva stepped closer, her breath shallow. “Harlow, you can’t—you can’t keep digging into this. It’s dangerous.” Harlow met her gaze, her own eyes hard. “Someone’s been using the Veil Market to move things. People. And if they’re leaving marks like that, they’re not just smuggling. They’re *testing*.” A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. One of the ME’s assistants, a young guy with a clipboard, was watching them with wide eyes. Harlow didn’t care. She turned back to the rift, her mind racing. Morris had been investigating something similar before he disappeared. A string of cases that didn’t add up. People who vanished without a trace, only to reappear months later—changed. Broken. And now this. Harlow pulled out her phone, snapping a few quick photos of the sigil on the man’s hand. She’d need to get it analyzed. Properly. Eva grabbed her arm. “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t your fight anymore.” Harlow shook her off. “It was never *my* fight. But it’s *someone’s* fight. And if they’re using the Market to do it, then it’s my job to stop them.” She turned back to the body, her mind piecing together the fragments. The man’s suit. The sigil. The rift. This wasn’t just a death. It was an invitation. And Harlow Quinn had never been one to ignore an invitation when the stakes were this high.