AI Detective Harlow Quinn pushed through the rusted metal gate that sealed off the forgotten entrance to the old Camden Tube station. Damp air hit her like a slap, carrying the metallic tang of stale water and something sharper, like ozone after a storm. Her boots crunched over shattered tiles, each step echoing in the cavernous dark. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, noting the time: 2:17 AM. The call had come in anonymously, whispering about a body down here, but no one in the Met should have known about this place. Abandoned for decades, it lurked beneath the bustling streets, a relic buried under layers of London’s underbelly.
Uniforms had already cordoned off the area above ground, their flashlights cutting erratic beams through the fog. Down here, though, the scene unfolded in a haze of emergency lamps rigged by the first responders. Quinn’s sharp jaw tightened as she descended the crumbling stairs, her military precision guiding every movement. Eighteen years on the force, and she’d seen her share of oddities, but this? Vendors’ stalls lined the platform edges, makeshift tables draped in faded cloths, scattered with trinkets that gleamed unnaturally under the lights. Jars of iridescent powders, feathers that seemed to twitch on their own, books with spines etched in symbols she didn’t recognize. An underground market, hidden in plain sight—or not so plain.
“Detective Quinn,” a young constable greeted her at the bottom, his voice tight. He nodded toward the center of the platform, where yellow tape fluttered around a chalk outline. “Body’s over there. Male, mid-thirties, no ID yet. Looks like he took a nasty fall, but... well, you’ll see.”
She strode past him without a word, her brown eyes scanning the chaos. The air hummed with a low vibration, like distant trains that never arrived. Stalls overturned, goods spilled across the tracks. A brass compass lay shattered near the edge, its needle bent at an impossible angle, pointing straight down into the abyss. Quinn crouched, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. The casing bore a greenish patina, etched with swirling sigils that made her skin prickle.
Footsteps approached from behind. Quinn glanced up to see a woman with curly red hair and round glasses, clutching a worn leather satchel stuffed with books. Freckles dotted her complexion, and she tucked a stray curl behind her left ear—a nervous tic, Quinn noted. Eva Kowalski, the research assistant from the British Museum. They’d crossed paths before, on that artifact smuggling case last year. What the hell was she doing here?
“Detective,” Eva said, her green eyes wide as she adjusted her glasses . “They called me in. Said it might involve some... historical items. I got here twenty minutes ago.”
Quinn stood, brushing dust from her trousers. “Historical items? This looks like a flea market raid gone wrong. Body?”
Eva pointed toward the outline. “Over there. But look closer. The wounds aren’t from a fall.”
Quinn moved in, kneeling beside the chalk marks. No blood pool, just faint scorch lines radiating from where the chest would have been. The platform showed no impact cracks, no signs of struggle. A faint shimmer hung in the air , like heat distortion over asphalt, but the station chilled her to the bone.
“Constable thinks he jumped the tracks,” Eva continued, crouching beside her. “Or got pushed. But see those burns? They’re radial, like an energy discharge. And the air... it feels charged . I’ve read about rifts—supernatural tears in reality. This place, it’s not just an old station. It’s the Veil Market. Moves every full moon, entry by bone token only. Sells things that shouldn’t exist.”
Quinn’s gaze narrowed. “Veil Market? Sounds like a ghost story for tourists. We’ve got a dead man, scattered goods, no witnesses. Evidence points to a botched robbery. Perp grabs what he can, shoves the victim onto the tracks, flees.”
Eva shook her head, pulling a thick tome from her satchel. She flipped it open, pages whispering as she pointed to an illustration of a glowing portal. “Not a robbery. Look at that compass over there. It’s a Veil Compass—points to the nearest supernatural rift. Crafted by Shade artisans, brass with verdigris patina, sigils for protection. It’s shattered , needle jammed downward. If this was a rift event, the victim might have been pulled through, not pushed.”
Quinn picked up a shard of the compass, turning it in her fingers. The metal warmed unnaturally against her skin, and for a split second, the sigils seemed to pulse . She dropped it, wiping her hand on her coat. “Rift event? You’re saying some portal sucked him in? That’s not evidence, Kowalski. That’s fantasy.”
Eva tucked her hair again, voice steadying. “Fantasy with footnotes. I work in the restricted archives—master’s from Oxford in Ancient History. Places like this aren’t myths. The market deals in enchanted goods, banned substances. Alchemicals that bend reality. If a rift opened here, it could explain the lack of blood. Victim gets destabilized, body phases out partially. Those scorch marks? Residual energy from the tear closing.”
Quinn circled the outline, her boots echoing sharply . She spotted a faint trail of glittering dust leading from the chalk to a nearby stall, where jars lay cracked open, spilling powders that shifted colors in the lamplight. No footprints, though. Just the dust, as if carried on a breeze that didn’t exist. “Dust trail. Leads to that stall. If it was a robbery, why leave valuables behind? And no defensive wounds noted in the prelim?”
“The prelim’s wrong,” Eva insisted, following her gaze. “Check the body report again. I peeked—internal organs showed liquefaction, but externals intact except for those burns. A fall doesn’t do that. A rift does. Pulls you apart from the inside, like gravitational shear.”
Quinn paused, crouching by the dust. She scooped a pinch, rubbing it between her fingers. It tingled, then vanished, leaving her skin unmarked. Her mind raced back to three years ago, DS Morris crumpled in that warehouse, eyes vacant, no cause of death but whispers of something unnatural. She’d buried it, called it unsolved. But this... echoes .
“Assume your rift theory,” Quinn said, standing abruptly. “Why here? Why now? Market moves on full moons, you said. Last one was two nights ago. Someone forces a rift open, grabs what—information? Enchanted junk?”
Eva nodded, excitement creeping into her tone. “Exactly. The compass points to rifts. If it’s broken like that, maybe the killer used it to locate one, then smashed it to cover tracks. But see the patina? Verdigris means age, but the break’s fresh. And look—” She pointed to the platform edge, where faint etchings marred the concrete, like claws had scraped through.
Quinn leaned over, her breath catching. The scrapes formed patterns, not random—sigils matching the compass. Her military bearing held firm, but doubt flickered . “Not claws. Tool marks. Perp carves these to... what, summon your portal?”
“Or stabilize it,” Eva countered, flipping another page in her book. “Ancient texts describe rifts as unstable. Sigils anchor them. This victim—he wasn’t random. Probably a vendor. Check his hands, if they bagged them. Calluses from handling artifacts, maybe residue from alchemicals.”
Quinn waved over the constable. “Get forensics on the hands. Residue check, full spectrum.”
The constable hurried off, radio crackling. Quinn turned back to Eva, voice low. “You’re pushing this occult angle hard. Why? Museum send you to reclaim stolen goods?”
Eva’s freckles flushed slightly , but she met Quinn’s stare. “Not stolen. Protected. I’ve studied this market for years. It’s a hub for things that could unravel the world if misused. If a rift was involved, we’re not dealing with a mugger. We’re dealing with someone who knows the veil between worlds.”
Quinn paced, piecing it. The humming air, the unnatural warmth of the compass shard, the dust that dissolved. Morris’s case had similar vibes—no blood, strange burns. She’d dismissed it as coincidence, but now? “Victim’s position. Outline shows arms outstretched, like reaching for something. Not falling—grasping.”
Eva’s eyes lit. “Grasping at the rift edge. Trying to pull back. Yes! And the compass nearby—maybe he used it to navigate , but it overloaded.”
Quinn stopped, staring at the shattered device. The needle, bent down, but upon closer look, it didn’t point straight—it angled toward a sealed door at the platform’s end, hidden in shadow. She approached, running her fingers over the frame. No dust, recently opened. A faint draft seeped through, carrying that ozone scent stronger.
“Door’s been used,” Quinn muttered. “Not sealed like the rest. If your rift closed here, maybe an exit stayed open.”
Eva joined her, satchel bumping Quinn’s side. “Or a portal remnant. Detective, this could lead to wherever the killer went. But we need a bone token to—”
Quinn shoved the door. It creaked open, revealing a narrow tunnel lined with flickering bioluminescent fungi that pulsed in rhythm with the station’s hum. No ordinary maintenance shaft. “Token or not, evidence trail goes this way.”
Eva hesitated, tucking her hair frantically. “This is Veil territory. Rifts aren’t stable. One wrong step...”
Quinn glanced back, her sharp jaw set. “Then step careful. Your interpretation’s got holes, but mine’s cracking too. Body doesn’t fall without impact. Dust vanishes. Sigils match the compass. Someone orchestrated this, and it’s not human error.”
They stepped inside, the tunnel swallowing the station lights. Fungi illuminated faint footprints—Quinn’s size, but leading deeper, as if someone had walked out, not in. “Footprints incoming,” Quinn observed, voice echoing . “Victim didn’t die here. He came through.”
Eva gasped softly . “From the other side. Rift pulled him in elsewhere, spat him out here. Killer sets it up to look like a market hit.”
Quinn nodded, the pieces slotting. Morris’s warehouse had similar fungi traces in the autopsy, dismissed as contamination. She’d missed it then. Not now. The tunnel curved, fungi brightening, revealing a chamber ahead where shadows danced unnaturally.
A glint caught her eye—a second compass, intact, needle spinning wildly. Quinn reached for it, but Eva grabbed her arm. “Don’t! It’s attuned. Touch it, and you might trigger another rift.”
Quinn pulled back, mind whirling. “Then the killer left it as bait. Draw in the curious, erase the trail.”
Eva’s voice dropped. “Or open a door for something worse.”
The chamber loomed , air thickening. Quinn’s watch ticked louder, as if time warped. She deduced the setup: not murder, but sacrifice. Victim lured through rift, body dumped to mask a larger play. The market’s goods scattered to feign robbery, but the real theft? Information, perhaps, on rifts themselves.
“Call it in,” Quinn ordered, turning to Eva. “We seal this off. Your occult nonsense just became my lead.”
Eva fumbled for her phone, signal flickering. “It’s not nonsense. It’s the truth you’ve been missing.”
Quinn stared into the chamber, where a faint glow pulsed , like a heartbeat. The evidence finally added up—not in her world, but in this veiled one . She’d see what others missed, even if it dragged her into the dark.