Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYABHPC4EBT78PTBR4Y0ET0

The Tube station was too quiet. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, her boots crunching on something brittle beneath the sole. Not glass. Not bone. The air smelled wrong—too thick, too *old*, like damp wool left in a sealed chest for decades. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. The time read 3:17 AM, but the station’s flickering fluorescents cast everything in a sickly green hue, as if the clock itself had stopped. DS Morris would’ve hated this. The thought hit her like a physical blow. Three years. Three years since the last case, since the night the evidence had gone missing, since the coroner’s report had listed the cause of death as *exsanguination*—a word that didn’t belong in a medical examiner’s notes. She exhaled through her nose, military precision keeping her spine straight, her jaw sharp. No time for ghosts. Not here. Ahead, the platform stretched into darkness, the tracks disappearing into the black like a throat swallowing light whole. The body lay near the edge, half in shadow, half illuminated by the sickly glow. A man in a rumpled suit, his tie loosened, his face frozen in an expression that wasn’t quite fear—more like *recognition*. His hands were clasped over his chest, fingers splayed as if he’d been reaching for something just out of grasp. Quinn knelt, her gloved fingers hovering over the corpse. The skin was too pale, almost translucent, like wax left too long in the sun. No rigor yet. No lividity. She pressed two fingers to his neck—cold, but not the cold of death. Not yet. “You’re not going to find a pulse,” a voice said from behind her. Quinn didn’t turn. “No. But I’m going to find something else.” DS Carter, her new partner, crouched beside her, his breath fogging in the unnatural chill. He was young—too young for this detail, really—but he had a sharp eye. Too sharp, sometimes. Like he was always *waiting* for the moment the world made sense. “Suicide,” Carter said, gesturing to the man’s hands. “Look at the position. Classic sign of—” “Classic sign of a man who didn’t want to be found,” Quinn interrupted. She tilted her head, studying the corpse’s fingers. They weren’t just clasped. They were *gripping*. Something. The fabric of his shirt was torn, as if he’d clawed at his own chest. “You see that?” Carter leaned in. “Yeah. But—” “But nothing.” Quinn stood abruptly, her boots scuffing against the concrete. She paced the length of the platform, her gaze sweeping the edges of the station. The walls were lined with graffiti—most of it faded, but one phrase stood out, scrawled in fresh black spray paint: **THE VEIL IS NEAR.** Her stomach twisted. She’d heard rumors, of course. Underground markets where things that shouldn’t exist changed hands. But this wasn’t just a rumor. This was a *warning*. She turned back to the body. “Who called this in?” “Anonymous tip,” Carter said, flipping through his notebook. “Said the guy was hanging around the old Camden station, muttering about ‘the market.’” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the compass in her satchel—the Veil Compass, bought on a whim three months ago from a woman in a trench coat who’d smelled of burnt copper and old parchment. She’d ignored its pull ever since, but now the brass casing seemed to hum against her thigh. “You think this is connected?” Carter asked, following her gaze. Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, she crouched again, this time examining the corpse’s shoes. They were polished leather, expensive. The kind a man would wear to a boardroom, not a suicide. And yet, the soles were caked with something dark and gritty. Not mud. Not blood. Dirt. She pinched a handful between her fingers and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Gritty. Almost *sandy*. But not like London sand. Like— “Like the stuff you’d find in an abandoned Tube tunnel,” Carter said, reading her mind. “But this station’s been sealed for years.” Quinn stood, her jaw tightening. “Then how the hell did he get here?” A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She turned just as a figure stepped into the dim light—a woman with curly red hair, her round glasses reflecting the fluorescents. Eva Kowalski. Her best friend. Her *occult researcher* friend. “You’re late,” Quinn said, her voice flat. Eva didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t invited.” Quinn exhaled through her nose. “You’re here because you *know* something.” Eva hesitated, then pulled a small leather-bound journal from her satchel. “I found this in the restricted archives. Page torn out of a first-edition *Grimoire of the Forgotten*.” She flipped to a dog-eared photograph—a black-and-white image of a Tube station, identical to this one, but with a crowd of people gathered around a flickering light in the distance. The caption read: **The Last Veil Market, 1923.** Quinn’s pulse quickened. “You’re telling me this place *moves*?” “Not just moves,” Eva said, her voice low. “It *hunts*. The Veil Market doesn’t stay in one place. It *chooses* its victims. And right now, it’s chosen *him*.” Carter scoffed. “This is a suicide, Eva. A guy who snapped and—” “A guy who didn’t snap,” Quinn cut in. She pointed to the corpse’s wrists. No ligature marks. No defensive wounds. Just two small, precise punctures, like needle pricks. “And he didn’t die here.” Eva’s eyes widened. “You’re saying—” “Someone brought him here,” Quinn said. “And they didn’t want him to leave.” A distant *click* echoed through the station. Quinn’s hand flew to her sidearm, but the sound wasn’t a gun. It was the *compass*. The needle spun wildly, then locked onto something just beyond the platform’s edge. “There’s a rift,” Eva breathed. Quinn didn’t wait. She strode toward the darkness, her boots echoing off the walls. The air grew thicker, the scent of damp wool intensifying. Then she saw it—a jagged tear in the air, no wider than a man’s arm, but shimmering like oil on water. On the other side, she could just make out the flickering glow of stalls, the murmur of voices speaking in languages she didn’t recognize. And standing just beyond the rift, watching her, was a figure in a long coat, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He raised a gloved hand and tossed something onto the platform. It landed at Quinn’s feet. A bone token. The same kind used to enter the Veil Market. Carter’s voice cut through the silence. “Quinn, what the *hell*—” She ignored him. Instead, she crouched and picked up the token. It was warm. Almost *pulsing*. And as she turned it over in her fingers, she realized—it wasn’t just a token. It was a *key*. And the lock it fit was right behind her.