Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYADMY4GMN4JP504EMMKY17

Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots thudded against the damp concrete of the Tube tunnel, the sound swallowed by the silence. She paused, squinting at the rusted rat holes gnawing at the walls, at the overhead sign bent like a broken finger: *Bank*—twelve stops too far from Camden. The air reeked of mildew and something sharper, coppery, but not blood. “Christ,” came a voice from up ahead. “You sure this is the right place, Quinn? Looks like a derelict fridge.” Quinn didn’t look up. Her hand went to the leather strap of her satchel, where the Revolver Smith & Wesson rode easy. “I didn’t come here for warmth, Jensen.” She rounded the corner and saw it: a man in a threadbare black coat crumpled against the wall, his throat split—not by a knife, not by a bullet, but by something that had torn through flesh like paper. His eyes were wide, frozen mid-scream, and there was no blood. Not on the coat, not on the floor, not even on the cracked tile beside his hand. “What the hell happened to him?” Jensen said, his voice tight. Quinn knelt, her knees sinking into mud that smelled of iron. The man’s wrists were raw, as if he’d struggled with something invisible. His left hand was curled, fingers half-spread, and she pried them open. A bone token, smooth and white, lay in his palm—pale, porous, carved with runes she didn’t recognize. But the runes were cracked, like glass. “Jensen.” He leaned down. “Yeah?” “Call for backup. Crime scene unit, ME. And tell them to bring a Geiger counter. This place is *radiating*.” He nodded, backing away. Quinn stayed, her brow furrowed. The token wasn’t right. Veil Market tokens were bound to the location—you couldn’t take one out unless you were leaving. Unless… A shadow moved at the end of the tunnel. She spun, hand on her gun, but it was only a girl. Fifteen, maybe, with curly red hair tumbling over a leather satchel bulging with books. She wore round glasses smudged with ink, and when she saw Quinn, she tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear—*her nervous habit*, Quinn noted. “Eva,” Jensen said, appearing beside her. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a crime scene.” Eva held up her hands, palms out. “I *called* you. Remember? I sent the tip. Told you the clique was moving drugs through the Market. You said it was too slow.” She wet her lower lip, eyes darting to the body. “He didn’t make it, did he?” Quinn stood, wiping her knees on her trousers. “Who?” “Milo. He was selling the Veil Compass. Had it stitched into his coat, under the lining. I told him to hold off. Told him the clique would—” She cut herself off, biting her lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t know he’d be—” “Wait.” Quinn knelt again, this time to the body’s shoulder. She unbuttoned the coat, ran a finger over the stitching. There was no tear, no blood. “He was killed before the coat was taken. Look at the *marks*.” Eva leaned closer. “What marks?” “On his neck. Not a bite. Not a slash. Look at the pattern. Like… like claw tips, but smaller. More—” “Precise,” Eva finished. “Demonic. They’re called *shade teeth*. You get them from a rift, not a direct attack. The spirit latches on, tears through muscle to get the host’s essence. But usually, they leave a mess. Blood, viscera—” “Not this time.” Quinn’s thumb brushed the man’s cheek. “The bone token. Cracks in the runes. And the compass is missing.” Eva’s breath hitched. “The compass? The one Shade artisans carved? The one that points to rifts? He had it, right? I saw him with it last week. He said the clique was going to kill him if he didn’t—” “Quinn.” Jensen’s voice was sharp. “The ME’s here. And so’s the forensics team.” Quinn stood, dusting off her hands. She looked at Eva, who was still staring at the body, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “You sure you didn’t see anyone else here last night? Before Milo arrived?” Eva flinched, like she’d been hit. “I told you, I called you. I was meeting him to give him a list of the clique’s members. He said he’d wait by the manhole. But when I got here, there was a crowd. The bone token I gave him—Milo, he never used it himself. He said it was ‘too loyal.’ Told me it would alert him if anyone was tracking him. But when I pushed, he just… he got quiet.” Quinn’s gaze went to the manhole behind them, the rusted grate pocked with holes. The bone token Milo had been holding would’ve let him in, but it was cracked—*used*. Someone had taken it from him. “Jensen,” she said, “check the grate. See if there’s a scratch, a mark. Something that doesn’t belong.” Jensen nodded, walking over. Eva stayed, her eyes on Quinn’s hands—the worn leather watch, the scar on her knuckle, the calluses from years of gripping a gun. “You think it’s the clique?” she said. Quinn didn’t look at her. “The clique uses the Market for info, for drugs, for magic. But they don’t *kill* for a compass. Not unless it’s more than a compass.” Eva bit her lip. “Shade magic… the compass is a key. To the rifts. To the spirits. If someone has it, they can open a portal, move through dimensions. The clique wants that power. They’d kill for it.” “Then why the shade teeth?” “To scare people. To make it look like a spirit did it. But Milo’s marks—they’re not *ancient*. The runes in the Market are old, but the teeth? They’re from a new spirit. A hungry one.” Quinn stepped closer, her voice low. “You’ve researched this. All of it.” Eva’s nervous habit flared—she tucked hair behind her left ear again. “I do. It’s my job. At the museum. The restricted archives. The one with the… with the old grimoires.” Quinn studied her. Eva was 26, young, with a freckled complexion that made her look younger. She’d moved to London two years ago, Aurora’s best friend, but Aurora wasn’t here. Aurora was dead, killed in a fire three years ago, her body found with burns that didn’t match the blaze—supernatural burns, the kind Quinn still didn’t understand. “You still think about her,” Quinn said, not a question. Eva’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away. “Every day. I promised her I’d find out what happened. That I’d make them pay.” Quinn nodded. “The clique. That’s why you called. To warn Milo. To get him to talk.” Eva looked down at her satchel, at the books peeking out—leather-bound, labeled in crisp script. “He was going to give me a list. Names, addresses, anything. He said the clique was planning to open a rift. A *big* one. Bring a whole army through.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. The clique. The same clique that had killed Morris, that had left her partner’s body with burns that defied explanation. The same clique she’d been chasing for three years, the one that had never left her alone. Jensen called her name, and she turned. He held up a magnifying glass, pointing at the grate. “Scratch. Right here. Looks like… a claw?” Quinn knelt, squinting. The scratch was deep, uneven, as if something with curved fingers had pried the grate open. “Someone didn’t use the bone token,” she said. “They broke in.” Eva’s voice was small. “How? The Market’s protected. Only a token or a ritual can open a portal.” Quinn stood, her eyes narrowing. She walked to the edge of the platform, where the tunnel curved into the dark. The air felt different here—thinner, like a membrane. She closed her eyes, thinking of the Veil Compass, of the way it had pointed to rifts, of the energy it hummed with. If Milo was killed here, and the compass is gone, then… She opened her eyes, facing Eva. “You said Milo was meeting someone at the manhole. What time?” Eva checked her watch. “Eleven. I left my apartment at ten forty-five, took the Overground. The last train was delayed, so I arrived at ten fifty-five. He wasn’t there. The crowd was. I tried to call him, but his phone went straight to voicemail.” Quinn nodded. “The scratch on the grate. It’s fresh. Someone was waiting here. For Milo. Took the compass. Left his body.” Eva stepped closer, her glasses slipping down her nose. “But why leave the body? Why not take it somewhere else?” “Maybe it wasn’t about the compass,” Quinn said. “Maybe it was about the token. The one in his hand. The runes were cracked, but they were still bound to the Market. Someone needed it to get out.” Eva’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, God. If they used the token to get out, then the portal is still open. The clique could still—” Quinn pulled her satchel open, taking out a notepad and a pen. She jotted down the scratch, the marks on Milo’s neck, the cracked token. “Jensen, send for the forensics team to trace the scratch. And Eva—” She looked up, her eyes sharp. “You’re going to give me that list. Right now.” Eva hesitated, then unzipped her satchel, pulling out a folder. She handed it over, her hands shaking. “I have copies. In my apartment. In the fireproof box—” “Good.” Quinn flipped through the folder, her jaw hardening. Names, dates, addresses—Milo’s list, scribbled in a hurry. “We hit the ground running. And when we find the clique, we’re going to—” A sound cut her off: a low, guttural growl, like a dog left to starve. Jensen reached for his gun, but Quinn was already moving, her own hand on the revolver. The growl came again, closer—from the tunnel beyond the manhole, from the dark. Eva grabbed her arm, her green eyes wide. “It’s the spirit. The one that killed Milo. It’s still here.” Quinn didn’t take her eyes off the tunnel. The growl turned into a whimper, then a high-pitched cry—pain, not rage. And then, silence. She stepped forward, her boots crunching on the floor. The tunnel ended at a brick wall, sealed off decades ago. But the wall was moving—cracks spreading like lightning, bricks crumbling to dust. A figure emerged, tall, gaunt, its skin gray and stretched, its eyes glowing red. It held something in its hand: the bone token, the one with the cracked runes. And in its chest, a glowing orb—pale blue, pulsing, the compass inside. Quinn raised her gun. “Drop it.” The figure turned, its mouth splitting into a grin that showed no teeth. It opened its hand, and the token fell to the floor. And then, it staggered, the orb in its chest dimming, the compass glowing brighter. Eva let out a breath. “The compass is burning him. The shade can’t stand the light.” The figure lunged, but the light from the compass flared, and it screamed—a sound like nails on a blackboard. It collapsed, dissolving into smoke, leaving nothing but a single, charred bone. Quinn picked up the token, brushing it off. It was whole now, the cracks gone. “Nice work,” Jensen said, approaching. “Took you long enough.” Quinn ignored him. She looked at the compass, at the face etched with sigils, at the needle spinning wildly. “He wasn’t working alone. The clique is still out there. And they’re going to open that rift.” She tucked the token into her pocket, the compass in her hand. The air felt heavy again, the membrane thin. “Let’s go,” she said. “We’re going to Camden.” Eva nodded, her nervous habit forgotten. Jensen pulled out his phone, already dialing. Quinn looked at the smoking wall, at the light still glowing from the broken portal. Three years. Three years of chasing shadows, of wondering what had happened to Morris. And now, it was all coming together—clues, tokens, compasses, a clique that wanted power. She didn’t know what lay beyond the rift. She didn’t know what the clique planned. But she knew one thing: she wasn’t going to let them win. (Scene ends as per instructions; no further continuation.)