Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9M25JTVVSM9Z980XRWJ4S

The air tasted of damp concrete and something else—something acrid, like burnt sugar and ozone. Harlow Quinn wrinkled her nose, the scent clinging to the back of her throat. The abandoned Tube station reeked of wrongness. Not just the usual decay of a forgotten place, but a deeper, unsettling wrongness that prickled at her skin. She swept her gaze across the scene, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. The platform was cavernous, the tiled walls slick with moisture. Graffiti, mostly faded tags, covered every surface, a chaotic tapestry of urban neglect. But it was the center of the platform that held her attention. A body lay sprawled near a disused ticket booth, a man in a tailored suit, his face pale and slack. “Single gunshot wound to the chest,” Sergeant Davies said, his voice echoing in the vast space. He was a young man, fresh out of training, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights they’d managed to rig up. “Looks like a robbery gone wrong, Detective Quinn.” Harlow knelt beside the body, ignoring the dampness seeping into her trousers. The man’s expensive watch was still on his wrist, a Patek Philippe. His wallet, thick with cash, lay undisturbed in his inside pocket. Davies was right about the gunshot, a clean entry wound, but the rest of it felt…off. Too neat. Too staged. She ran a gloved hand along the man’s jacket, feeling for any sign of a struggle. Nothing. No torn fabric, no defensive wounds. The victim hadn’t put up a fight. “No signs of forced entry,” Harlow observed, her voice low. “No witnesses, naturally.” Davies shrugged. “This station hasn’t been operational in decades. Who’d be down here?” “Someone who knew where to look,” Harlow said, her gaze sweeping the platform again. Something was missing. Something vital. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “Could be a drug deal gone south,” Davies offered, eager to fill the silence. “This area’s got a reputation.” Harlow didn’t respond. She was focused on a small, circular mark on the tiled floor, just beyond the body’s outstretched hand. It was faint, almost invisible in the dim light, but she recognized it. A sigil. Not a random doodle, but a carefully etched symbol, radiating a subtle, almost imperceptible energy. “What is it?” Davies asked, peering over her shoulder. “I don’t know,” Harlow admitted, “but it’s not something you find in a typical robbery.” She pulled out a small notebook and sketched the sigil, her hand moving with practiced precision. A voice cut through the silence. “Detective Quinn.” Harlow turned to see Detective Inspector Mallory approaching, his face grim. He was a career man, ambitious and pragmatic, and he didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark. “Mallory,” Harlow acknowledged, keeping her tone neutral. “We’ve got a homicide. Looks like a robbery, but something doesn’t sit right.” Mallory glanced at the body, then at Davies. “Davies, secure the scene. Forensics are on their way. Quinn, what’s bothering you?” “The lack of struggle,” Harlow said, gesturing to the body. “The valuables are still here. And this.” She showed him her sketch of the sigil. Mallory frowned. “Looks like some kind of graffiti to me.” “It’s more than that,” Harlow insisted. “It’s a symbol. And it’s radiating…something.” Mallory sighed, a sound of weary exasperation. “Quinn, you’re letting your imagination run wild again. We’ve been over this. You need to focus on the facts.” “The facts are, this man was killed in an abandoned Tube station with a strange symbol next to his body,” Harlow retorted, her voice hardening. “And I intend to find out why.” Just then, a figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the platform. A woman with a riot of curly red hair and round glasses, clutching a worn leather satchel. Eva Kowalski. Aurora’s best friend. “Eva?” Harlow asked, surprised. “What are you doing here?” Eva hurried towards them, her freckled complexion flushed. She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. “I…I heard about the incident. I thought I could help.” “Help how?” Mallory asked, his voice skeptical. “I’m a researcher at the British Museum,” Eva explained. “I specialize in ancient languages and symbols. I might be able to identify that sigil.” She pointed to Harlow’s sketch. Harlow studied Eva, assessing her. She knew Aurora had a childhood friend who was obsessed with the occult, but she’d never met her. Still, she was desperate for any lead. “Alright, Eva,” Harlow said. “Take a look.” Eva approached cautiously, peering at the sketch through her glasses. She traced the lines with her finger, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s…familiar,” she murmured. “Very old. I’ve seen something similar in the restricted archives.” “What is it?” Harlow pressed. “It’s a ward,” Eva said slowly. “A protective sigil. But…it’s been corrupted. Twisted.” “Corrupted how?” “It’s meant to repel something,” Eva explained. “But this…this seems to be drawing something in.” Harlow felt a chill run down her spine. “Drawing what in?” Eva hesitated. “I’m not sure. But it’s not natural.” Mallory scoffed. “This is ridiculous. We’re dealing with a murder, Quinn, not a supernatural phenomenon.” Harlow ignored him. She turned back to the body, her eyes scanning the platform with renewed intensity. The sigil. The lack of struggle. The strange scent in the air. It was all starting to coalesce into a disturbing picture. She noticed something she’d missed before. A faint shimmer in the air, just above the spot where the sigil was etched. A distortion, like heat rising from asphalt on a summer day. “Davies,” she called out. “Get me a spectral analysis of that area.” Davies looked at her like she was insane. “A spectral analysis, Detective? What for?” “Just do it,” Harlow snapped. “Now.” While Davies grumbled and fumbled with his equipment, Harlow’s gaze fell on something else. A tiny, brass object lying half-hidden beneath the victim’s hand. She picked it up, carefully placing it in an evidence bag. It was a compass. Small, intricately crafted, with a casing etched with protective sigils. The needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing directly towards the shimmer in the air. “What is that?” Mallory asked, peering over her shoulder. Harlow didn’t answer. She knew exactly what it was. She’d seen one like it before, years ago, during a case she’d desperately tried to bury. A case that had cost her partner his life. “It’s a Veil Compass,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “And it’s pointing towards a rift.” The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t a robbery. This wasn’t a random act of violence. This was something far more sinister. Something connected to the shadows that lurked just beyond the veil of reality. She looked at Eva, her eyes filled with a grim understanding. “You said this sigil was corrupted. What was it meant to protect against?” Eva swallowed hard, her face pale. “It was meant to protect against…travelers.”