Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9KZJ9GKQ5TKN9NQ62G21B

The flickering sodium lights of the abandoned Tube station cast jagged shadows across the damp concrete, their glow barely piercing the thick fog curling from the tracks. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow police tape, her boots crunching on broken glass and the occasional rusted nail. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic—blood, maybe, or old oil. Sergeant Voss waited by the entrance, arms crossed, his breath visible in the cold. "You’re late," he said, voice low. "Thought you’d be here by now." Quinn didn’t look at him. Her gaze swept over the scene—the scattered debris, the faint glow of a single lantern left burning near the tracks. "Where’s the body?" Voss gestured toward the far end of the platform. "Over there. Or what’s left of it." Quinn exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the strap of her jacket. She moved forward, her boots silent on the uneven ground. The body lay half-hidden beneath a tangle of rusted metal and discarded crates. A woman, curled in on herself, her clothes torn, her face twisted in something that wasn’t quite pain anymore. Voss followed her, his boots scuffing against the concrete. "Looks like a suicide," he said, voice careful. "Or maybe an accident. No signs of struggle." Quinn crouched beside the body, her gloved fingers brushing against the woman’s wrist. No pulse. No breath. The skin was cold, but not unnaturally so. She lifted the woman’s sleeve, revealing a thin, pale wrist with no visible veins. No needle marks. No bruises. "She’s been dead a while," Voss said, stepping closer. "Maybe a day. Maybe two." Quinn didn’t answer. She turned the woman’s hand over, examining the fingers. They were long, delicate—someone who worked with their hands, maybe a scholar or an artist. The nails were clean, the cuticles unbitten. No rings. No jewelry. Then she saw it—the faintest mark on the woman’s inner wrist, just beneath the skin. A sigil, barely visible, etched into the flesh like a brand. Quinn’s breath caught. She’d seen that symbol before. Not in any textbook, not in any case file. She’d seen it in the dark, in the whispers of the Veil Market. Voss leaned in, squinting. "What is it?" Quinn didn’t look up. "Nothing." She stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the platform. The tracks stretched out into the darkness, their ends lost in the fog. And there, half-buried in the rubble near the tracks, was something else—a small brass compass, its casing etched with strange symbols. The needle spun wildly, as if pulled by an unseen force. Quinn picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. The metal was warm, almost pulsing. She’d seen this before too. The Veil Compass. A relic from the underground, something that shouldn’t exist in the hands of a civilian. Voss watched her, his expression unreadable. "You know what this is?" Quinn didn’t answer. She tucked the compass into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the worn leather of her watch. The timepiece had been a gift from her partner, DS Morris—something she’d never taken off since the day he’d given it to her. She glanced at the face, though she didn’t need to look. She knew the time. Knew the hour. Voss cleared his throat. "So. Suicide, then?" Quinn turned back to the body, her gaze lingering on the sigil. "No." She stood, her boots crunching on the broken glass. The fog swallowed the platform, the lantern’s light barely reaching the edges of the scene. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle echoed, hollow and mournful. Voss followed her out, his voice low. "You think it’s connected to the others?" Quinn didn’t look at him. She knew what he meant. The string of disappearances, the whispers of the Veil Market, the way the city seemed to breathe differently at night. She’d been chasing shadows for months now, ever since the day she’d found Morris’s body in that same abandoned station. She stopped at the edge of the platform, her fingers tightening around the strap of her jacket. "I think we’re missing something." Voss exhaled sharply. "Like what?" Quinn turned to him, her brown eyes sharp. "Like the fact that none of these women were who they seemed." She stepped back into the fog, her boots silent on the damp concrete. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the platform. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle echoed, hollow and mournful. Voss followed her, his voice low. "You think they were working for someone?" Quinn didn’t answer. She knew what he meant. The Veil Market. The shadows. The things that moved in the dark. She stopped at the edge of the platform, her fingers brushing against the worn leather of her watch. The timepiece had been a gift from her partner, DS Morris—something she’d never taken off since the day he’d given it to her. She glanced at the face, though she didn’t need to look. She knew the time. Knew the hour. Voss exhaled sharply. "You think we’re dealing with something supernatural?" Quinn turned to him, her brown eyes sharp. "I think we’re dealing with something worse." She stepped back into the fog, her boots silent on the damp concrete. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the platform. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle echoed, hollow and mournful.