Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA5JCZPAFGSJJE3KR76562

Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs into the bowels of what had once been a forgotten spur of the Northern Line, her worn leather watch ticking steadily against her left wrist. The air thickened with the stench of damp concrete and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. Flashlights from the forensics team bobbed like fireflies in the gloom, casting jagged shadows across graffiti-scarred tiles that peeled like old skin. This wasn't just any crime scene; it was the Veil Market, or what was left of it after the raid two nights ago. An abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, hidden behind wards and whispers, accessible only with a bone token she'd pried from a snitch's cold fingers. Her sharp jaw clenched as she ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape, military precision in every step. Uniforms milled about, their faces pale under the harsh portable lights. The market's stalls—ramshackle booths of black-market oddities—lay in splintered ruin. Jars of glowing sludge had shattered, vials of iridescent powders crunched underfoot, and grimoires fluttered like startled pigeons before being bagged as evidence. But it was the body that drew her: sprawled in the center of the main aisle, amid a circle of toppled crates, lay a man in his fifties, throat slashed ear to ear, blood pooled black and congealing on the cracked platform floor. His eyes stared blankly at the vaulted ceiling, where bioluminescent fungi clung like forgotten stars. "Detective Quinn," Sergeant Patel called from the perimeter, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. He was a sturdy man with a mustache that drooped like wet wool. "Glad you're here. SOCO's finished the prelims. Looks like a robbery gone bad. Pockets turned out, stall ransacked." Quinn crouched beside the corpse, gloved hands hovering over the wounds. The cut was clean, deep—a single stroke from left to right, consistent with a right-handed attacker standing over the victim. No hesitation marks. She noted the victim's attire: a threadbare velvet coat heavy with enchanted trinkets—silver amulets etched with sigils, a ring that hummed faintly under her touch. Around his neck dangled a chain snapped in two, the pendant missing. His stall had sold "rift-touched relics," according to the scribbled ledger nearby. "Time of death?" she asked, her brown eyes scanning the pooling blood. No spatter on the walls, just a neat halo around the body. Odd. "Between midnight and two a.m., ma'am," Patel replied, consulting his notepad. "Witnesses—well, buyers who scarpered—say they heard a scuffle, then silence. Place cleared out fast when the first blues showed." Quinn straightened, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. Eighteen years on the force, and she'd chased leads into stranger dens than this. But something gnawed at her. The blood. Too contained. A throat slash like that should spray meters, paint the tiles in arcs. Here, it was as if the body had been laid out post-mortem, the flow directed. She paced the perimeter, boots scraping grit. Footprints in the dust—multiple sets, chaotic, leading away toward the emergency exit tunnel. But no drag marks from the body. Whoever did this killed him here, in the thick of the market, and no one saw? "Any CCTV?" Silly question. This was the Veil Market; cameras fried on entry. Patel shook his head. "Nada. But we got this." He held up an evidence bag: a small brass compass, its casing patinaed with verdigris, face etched with protective sigils. The needle quivered, not toward magnetic north, but spinning lazily toward a shattered stall in the corner. "Found it clutched in his right hand. Victim's?" Quinn took the bag, turning it in the light. Veil Compass. She'd heard whispers—attuned to supernatural rifts, portals. Crafted by Shade artisans, or so the underworld murmured. Why grip it in death? She slipped it into her coat pocket for later. Footsteps echoed from the stairs—light, hesitant. Quinn turned as Eva Kowalski emerged from the shadows, her curly red hair a wild halo under the lights, round glasses slipping down her freckled nose. She clutched a worn leather satchel bulging with books, tucking a stray lock behind her left ear—a nervous tic Quinn had clocked years ago during interrogations. Eva, the occult researcher from the British Museum's restricted archives. Childhood friend to that slippery Aurora type Quinn had been tailing. Not a colleague, exactly, but consulted on "weird cases" since DS Morris vanished three years back. Supernatural bollocks, Quinn had dismissed then. Still did, mostly. "Detective," Eva said breathlessly, green eyes wide. "Museum sent me. Heard about the market breach. This is... catastrophic." Quinn's gaze hardened. "Kowalski. Briefing?" Eva knelt by the body, unflinching, her satchel thumping beside her. "Vincent Hale. Vendor here for a decade. Dealt in rift artifacts. Low-level stuff—compasses, wards. Not the heavy alchemists." She gestured to the wreckage. "But look at the sigils on those crates. Protection runes, Hale's specialty. They're intact. No scorch marks, no residue." Patel nodded. "Like I said, robbery. Killer grabs the good stuff, slits his throat. Pendant's gone—probably a high-value charm." Quinn circled the body again, flashlight beam cutting the dark. The blood pool gleamed unnaturally viscous, almost oily. She knelt, sniffed—faint metallic tang, not just hemoglobin. Alchemical? No. Something else. Her mind flashed to Morris: gutted in a warehouse, wounds that defied physics, shadows that moved wrong. Dismissed as gang hit. She pushed it down. "Doesn't add up," Quinn muttered. "Blood's wrong. Too little spray for the depth of cut. And position—arms at sides, legs straight. Like he dropped in place." Eva adjusted her glasses. "It's not a robbery, Detective. Look closer." She pointed to the victim's hand. "Bruising on the knuckles, defensive. But no blood on his nails, no skin under them. He didn't fight back effectively." "Stunned first?" Patel suggested. "Blunt force?" Quinn shook her head, eyes tracing the floor. Dust patterns—scuffed, but no blood trail to or from the body. The victim had been standing dead center of the aisle, market bustling around him. A killing in plain sight? Implausible. She followed the footprints: most veered away chaotically, but one set—small boots, size six—circled the body once, then vanished toward the north tunnel. No corresponding exit prints. Her watch beeped—low battery warning. She ignored it, pulling the compass from her pocket. The needle snapped north, toward the platform's edge, where a grate hung loose. Rift? She pried it open, shining her light down. A service tunnel, dripping wet, leading deeper. "Eva," Quinn said, voice low. "Your take?" Eva hesitated, tucking hair again. "Supernatural. Hale was attuned—those compasses detect rifts. Market moves every full moon, but this one's fixed under Camden because of a weak veil here. Thin spot to the Shade realms. Killer wasn't human. Pulled him through a micro-rift, slit him mid-market, dropped the body back. Explains no drag, contained blood—rift sealed it. Pendant was a stabilizer; without it, he's bait." Patel snorted. "Ghosts now? Come on." Quinn's jaw tightened. Shades. Portals. The same rot that swallowed Morris. She wanted to scoff, but the evidence piled: no attacker prints matching the kill zone, blood viscosity screaming anomaly, compass pointing to that grate. She dropped to her belly, peering into the tunnel. Faint glow—verdant, pulsing. Air hummed, raising neck hairs. Not natural. "Patel, bag those boot prints. Size six, distinctive tread—hobnails." She stood, mind racing. Robbery was too neat. Witnesses heard scuffle, but no screams? Market full of paranoids who'd bolt at a shadow. Killer trusted the crowd to scatter. Eva watched her, expectant. "You see it, don't you? The veil's tearing. Hale's death is a message." Quinn pocketed the compass, its weight grounding her. "Message or not, someone's walking out of here rich. Pendant's key." She strode to Hale's stall, rifling ledgers. Entries in code—sales of "shadow needles," "bone keys." Last one: "E.K. - Compass trade. Midnight." E.K. Eva Kowalski? Quinn whipped around. "You were here?" Eva paled, satchel clutched tight. "Research. Legit trade. He had a map—" "Bullshit." Quinn's voice cracked like a whip. "Your boots match those circling the body. Prints stop at the grate. You trade, argue, rift opens—" "No!" Eva backed up, hands raised. "Vincent was alive when I left. Check timestamps. I was gone before—" Quinn seized her arm, military grip firm. Forensics techs froze. "Satchel. Now." Eva complied, trembling. Books tumbled: grimoires on rifts, Shade lore. Tucked in a pocket: a bone token, still warm. And a pendant—identical chain to Hale's, sigil glowing faintly. "Explains the entry," Quinn growled. "But not the kill." Patel's radio crackled—backup en route. Quinn's mind whirred. Eva's theory held water now: micro-rift, body dropped. But bruising on Hale's hands? Defensive, yet no fight residue. Unless the attacker phased through. No—too far. She snatched the compass. Needle spun wildly toward Eva's satchel. Toward the pendant inside. Quinn yanked it free. The sigil pulsed, matching the etchings on the compass. Hale's pendant wasn't stolen—it was duplicated. Trade. But why kill? Flashback: Morris's body, shadows clinging. A Shade artisan's mark on his watch—same verdigris patina. "The Compass," Quinn breathed. "It points to rifts... or fakes." Eva's eyes widened. "What?" Quinn held it up. "Hale sold knockoffs. Real ones detect true rifts. Fakes? Point to buyers, mark them for Shades. You bought one. Rift opened on you, grabbed Hale instead—wrong sigil resonance." Eva gasped. "He scammed me. The killer's Shade retaliation." Patel whistled. "Bloody hell." Quinn nodded, pieces locking. Evidence didn't add up because it wasn't a human crime. Military precision snapped in: secure the grate, call in specialists—not museum eggheads, but real containment. Her partner’s ghost stirred; this time, she'd understand. "Seal the tunnels," she ordered. "Kowalski, you're with me. Market's closed—for good." As they moved, compass steady in her fist, Quinn felt the underground hum deepen. The veil thinned, but her eyes saw through it now. What others missed: the scam, the Shade's justice. And the clique? Aurora's friends like Eva danced too close. Time to pull the thread. (Word count: 1427)