Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA6QMV5599SRDFJXS72R7A

Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the rickety service ladder into the dim throat of the abandoned Camden Town Tube station. Dust motes swirled in the beam of her flashlight, catching on cracked tiles that hadn't seen passengers since the war. The air hung thick with mildew and something sharper, like ozone after a storm. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, noting the time—2:17 AM. Eighteen years on the force, and calls like this still pulled her from sleep, but this one gnawed at her. Anonymous tip about a body down here, no details, just coordinates that led to a sealed-off entrance. She gripped her service pistol in one hand, the other tracing the sharp line of her jaw as she scanned the shadows. Footsteps echoed from deeper in. Quinn froze, military precision locking her stance. A figure emerged from the arched tunnel, round glasses glinting under a headlamp. Eva Kowalski. The redhead tucked a curl behind her left ear, her freckled face pale but composed, worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder. "Detective Quinn," Eva said, voice steady but laced with that academic clipped tone. "You made it down here fast. I didn't expect the Met to respond to my call so quick." Quinn holstered her weapon, but kept her hand close. "Your call? Dispatch said anonymous. What are you doing at my crime scene, Ms. Kowalski?" Eva adjusted her satchel, books shifting inside with a muffled thud. "Research. The museum sent me to catalog some old rail artifacts. Found more than that." She nodded toward the tunnel. "Body's this way. But it's... off. You'll see." Quinn followed, boots crunching over debris. Eva's presence itched at her. The woman popped up too often in Quinn's peripheral cases—occult hobbyist with access to restricted archives. And that clique she ran with, always whispering about hidden histories. Quinn's partner, DS Morris, had died chasing leads like this, his body twisted in ways no autopsy explained. Supernatural origins, the whispers said. Quinn shoved the thought down. Facts first. They emerged into a vast chamber, what used to be the platform. But no ordinary ruins greeted them. Stalls lined the walls, draped in faded silks that shimmered unnaturally. Jars of iridescent powders cluttered tabletops, next to trinkets that hummed faintly. A market, but not for tourists. Quinn's flashlight swept over a brass compass on the ground, its face etched with symbols that twisted her gut. The needle spun lazily, not north, but toward a shadowed alcove. "What the hell is this place?" Quinn muttered, crouching to examine the compass. Verdigris patina coated the casing, like it'd aged centuries in a night. Eva hovered nearby, green eyes flicking to the alcove. "Locals call it the Veil Market. Moves every full moon. Sells things you won't find on eBay—enchanted stuff, alchemical brews. Entry requires a bone token." She pulled a small, carved femur fragment from her pocket, holding it up. "Like this." Quinn straightened, sharp jaw tightening. "And you just happen to have one? This is a crime scene, not a flea market ghost story. Where's the body?" Eva pointed. "Over there, by the rift." Quinn approached the alcove. The victim lay sprawled, a man in his thirties, suit rumpled, face frozen in a rictus of surprise. No blood, no visible wounds. But his skin gleamed with faint, glowing veins, like cracks in porcelain lit from within. Around him, the air warped, a heat haze that bent light into impossible angles. Quinn knelt, gloved fingers probing the neck. Pulse absent, body cool but not rigid—dead maybe an hour. Yet the eyes, wide and glassy, reflected stars that didn't match the underground gloom. "John Doe for now," Eva said, kneeling opposite. "No ID, but I recognize the suit—tailored in Savile Row, enchanted thread. He was a buyer here." Quinn shot her a look. "Enchanted? Cut the folklore crap. This man's dead, and you're treating it like a museum exhibit." She scanned the body again. No trauma, but the glowing veins pulsed faintly, syncing with that spinning compass nearby. Evidence didn't add up. Toxicology would show poison, maybe, or a seizure. But down here? In this freak show? Eva pushed her glasses up. "Look closer. Those veins aren't bruising. They're ley lines, mapped on his skin. And that rift—" She gestured to the warping air. "It's a portal tear. Something pulled him through, or he tried to cross and it backfired." Quinn stood, crossing to a nearby stall. Jars toppled, contents spilled—powders that sparked on contact with air. Footprints muddled the dust, but one set led straight to the body, then vanished into the haze. Not scuffed away; just gone. She paced the perimeter, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. Military bearing kept her steps measured, but her mind raced. Anonymous tip—Eva's doing, probably. Leading her here. Why? "You're seeing it wrong," Eva pressed, tucking another curl. "This isn't a mugging or overdose. The Market deals in rifts—doorways to other realms. He must've bought a bad compass or token, tried to navigate one. It... consumed him." Quinn picked up the brass compass, needle jerking toward the alcove. Protective sigils etched the face, but one looked scratched, deliberate. "Or someone tampered with it. Set him up." She turned the device over. "Crafted by a Shade artisan," she read aloud from a faint inscription, surprising herself with the recall. Morris had rambled about shades once, shadow beings. She'd dismissed it. Eva's eyes widened. "You know about Shades? That's deep lore. Yes, the Veil Compass points to supernatural rifts. This one's attuned wrong—needle's not steady. Someone sold him a dud, or worse." Quinn set it down, watching the needle spin. Facts: body with no entry wound, but internal glow suggesting energy surge. Market stalls ransacked selectively—only items near the alcove disturbed. And Eva, conveniently first on scene, with her bone token and satchel of books. Quinn's watch ticked, a reminder of time slipping. Morris had died like this—unexplained energy, body marked with symbols. She'd buried it, called it a fluke. But patterns emerged. "Let's talk your interpretation," Quinn said, voice low. "You think this is supernatural voodoo. Portal ate him. Fine. But why call the police? Why not handle it in your little occult club?" Eva shifted, freckles standing out against her flush. "Because it's escalating. Rifts like this don't just appear. Someone's forcing them open, trading in unstable portals. I called you because... well, you're not like other detectives. You lost Morris to something similar." Quinn's hand twitched toward her watch. "Don't bring him into this." But the words stung. She circled the body again. The glowing veins formed a pattern—sigils matching the compass. Not random. Deduction clicked: the victim held the compass when he died; residue on his palm matched the verdigris. But the scratch on the sigil? Fresh tool mark, not wear. Sabotage. "Evidence says foul play," Quinn countered. "Not magic. Someone lured him here, gave him a rigged device. Those footprints end at the haze—accomplice stepped through, or illusion hid the exit." She pointed to scuff marks on the platform edge, faint but deliberate, like dragged heels. "He fought back. And you—how'd you get that token? Research, you say?" Eva clutched her satchel. "From the archives. It's legit. But if you're right, who benefits? The Market's black market—competitors, maybe. Or someone hunting rift energy." Quinn knelt by the haze, hand extended. Air hummed against her skin, warm and pulling. The compass needle steadied, pointing straight in. Not a wall, but a veil. Her mind rebelled—logic demanded explanation. Gas leak, hallucination. But the pull felt real, echoing Morris's last case. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins she didn't understand. Yet. "Colleague or not, you're holding back," Quinn said, standing. "This rift—it's not natural. And that compass? Points to something bigger." She pocketed a spilled powder vial, label faded but reading "rift stabilizer." Evidence bag it later. Deduction built: Eva's nerves, the tucked hair—hiding involvement? Or fear? The Market moved with the moon; this location fresh, crime timed perfectly. Eva stepped closer. "You're starting to see it. The evidence doesn't add up because it's not human crime. Rifts tear reality. He crossed wrong, body rejected." Quinn shook her head. "No. Someone made sure he crossed wrong." She traced the glowing veins with her light. They faded at the edges, like burned out circuits. Observation sharpened: no defensive wounds, but clenched fists—grasping the compass. And a faint burn on the palm, shaped like the sigil. Tampered device activated on contact. The air in the alcove thickened, haze rippling. Quinn's flashlight flickered. Patterns aligned—Market's goods, Eva's knowledge, Morris's death. She began to see what others missed: the supernatural thread weaving through it all. Not delusion. Reality bending. Her sharp jaw set. Time to dig deeper. Eva watched her. "What now?" Quinn glanced at her watch. 2:45 AM. "We secure the scene. But you—start talking. Everything." The haze pulsed once, as if listening. Quinn's hand rested on her pistol. Deductions formed chains, linking the impossible to the case. The Veil Market hid more than trinkets; it concealed killers who played with forces beyond law. She wouldn't let this slip like Morris. Deeper in the tunnel, a distant hum echoed, like machinery—or something alive. Quinn ignored it, focusing on the body. The glowing veins dimmed, but the pattern burned in her mind. Sabotage, portals, a market of shadows. Eva's green eyes met hers, full of secrets. Quinn nodded once. The game shifted. She'd unravel it, piece by unnatural piece.