Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYADCV8CM61BKFEYV6R5BXN

The air in the abandoned Tube station smelled like damp stone and something older—something that clung to the walls like a second skin. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the strap of her leather jacket, her salt-and-pepper hair catching the dim glow of the flickering emergency lights. The Veil Market had always been a place of whispers, but tonight, the place felt wrong. Too still. She stepped over the rusted metal grates that marked the entrance, her boots crunching on broken glass. The usual chaos of the market—laughter, the clatter of trinkets, the scent of incense and something darker—had vanished. Only silence remained, thick as the fog that sometimes curled through the tunnels beneath Camden. Then she saw it. A body, sprawled across the platform where the train used to rumble. Not a victim of a fall or a struggle, but something else entirely. The skin around the throat was stretched too tight, the veins dark and swollen beneath it. Harlow’s stomach twisted. She knelt, her military precision kicking in, her sharp jaw set in determination. The coroner’s report would say it was a homicide, but something about the way the air around the body seemed to *breathe*—like the victim had been drained of something more than blood. “Detective Quinn.” She didn’t look up. “Morris?” The voice was familiar, but the tone was wrong. Too smooth. Too practiced. Harlow stood, her watch ticking against her wrist, and turned to see a woman in a tailored coat, her green eyes sharp as flint. Eva Kowalski stood there, her round glasses perched on her nose, her freckled cheeks flushed with something more than excitement. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Harlow said, voice low. Eva’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m here because you’re not.” Harlow’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her service revolver. “You know what this is?” Eva stepped closer, her satchel slung over one shoulder, the weight of it shifting with every step. “I know what it’s *not*.” She gestured to the body. “You’re missing something. The coroner’s report won’t tell you what’s really happening here.” Harlow exhaled through her nose, her sharp jaw flexing. “What do you mean?” Eva’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This wasn’t a murder. It was a *draining*.” She reached into her coat and pulled out a small brass compass, its casing etched with protective sigils. The needle spun wildly, pointing toward the far wall where the air seemed to hum with unseen energy. “That’s why the body’s so pale. That’s why the veins are black. Someone took something from them.” Harlow’s pulse hammered in her throat. “What kind of something?” Eva’s gaze flicked to the compass, then back to her. “The Veil Market doesn’t sell just weapons or drugs. They sell *power*. And whoever did this didn’t just take it—they took it *slowly*, over time. Like a slow poison.” Harlow’s mind raced. The case files on her desk had mentioned something about supernatural rifts, about entities that fed on life force. But this—this was different. This was *personal*. The victim had been here before. She’d been part of the market’s inner circle. “You’re saying this isn’t just a crime,” Harlow said, her voice steady despite the unease creeping up her spine. “It’s a warning.” Eva nodded. “And if you don’t listen, it won’t stop here.” A distant *click* echoed through the station, sharp and metallic. Harlow’s eyes snapped to the corner where a figure stood, half-hidden in the shadows. A man in a long coat, his face obscured by a hood. His fingers twitched toward something in his pocket. Eva’s expression darkened. “They’re watching.” Harlow didn’t need to be told twice. She drew her revolver, her hand steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. “We move now.” Eva’s eyes widened. “You’re not thinking clearly.” “Neither are they,” Harlow shot back, her voice cutting through the tension. “Let’s see who’s right.” The man in the shadows took a step forward, his movements deliberate. The compass in Eva’s hand trembled. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She fired. The shot echoed through the station, the bullet striking the man in the chest. He staggered, his hood slipping back to reveal a face that wasn’t quite human—too pale, too still. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw something in them: recognition. Then he collapsed. Eva’s breath hitched. “That wasn’t necessary.” Harlow didn’t answer. She was already moving, her boots pounding against the metal grates as she led the way toward the rift. The air grew thicker, heavier, as if the station itself was holding its breath. The compass in Eva’s hand spun wildly, its needle pointing straight toward the source of the supernatural energy. “What is this place?” Eva whispered. Harlow didn’t look back. “It’s not a place. It’s a *door*.” And as they stepped through, the world around them dissolved into something far stranger—and far more dangerous—than anything they’d ever imagined.