Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAEBKV3W7G753W53NXZ3TD

The air tasted like dust and something metallic, old. Harlow Quinn adjusted the collar of her coat, the fabric rough against her neck. The abandoned Tube station reeked of neglect and something else, something…wrong. Not the wrong of a simple crime scene, but a layered wrong, like peeling back wallpaper to find older, darker wallpaper underneath. Camden Town station’s ghost, she thought, a forgotten echo in the bowels of London. “Charming, isn’t it?” Sergeant Davies said, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. He was young, still eager to impress, and currently trying not to cough in the swirling particulate matter. “Never thought I’d be investigating a homicide in a disused bit of the Underground.” Harlow didn’t bother with a reply. She already knew Davies considered her old-fashioned. She wasn’t interested in charming. She was interested in *correct*. And nothing about this felt correct. The victim lay sprawled on the platform, a man in a bespoke suit that now looked spectacularly out of place amidst the grime. He was clutching a tarnished silver locket. Forensics were already circling, photographing, bagging. “Name’s Alistair Finch. Art dealer. Apparently made a name for himself brokering… unusual pieces.” Davies consulted his notepad. “Found by a couple of urban explorers, according to their statement. They bolted as soon as they saw him.” Harlow knelt beside the body. Finch was mid-forties, well-kept. The wound, a single, precise puncture in his chest, was…clean. Too clean. No tearing of the fabric, no struggle evident in the way he fell. It was as if he’d simply…collapsed. She cast a glance at the platform edge. No sign of a struggle there either. And Finch hadn’t fallen onto the tracks. The dirt beneath him was disturbed, but not in the way a body thrown or shoved would disturb it. “What does the ME say?” “Preliminary’s pointing towards a single stab wound,” Davies replied. “Looks professional. Quick. Efficient.” “Efficient is an observation, Sergeant, not a conclusion,” Harlow said, her voice clipped. She tugged at her left wrist, checking the worn leather watch. 2:17 AM. Late even for a Friday. “Professional implies intent. We need to establish motive. And opportunity. Finch wasn't robbed, from the look of it.” Davies gestured to a small, overstuffed leather satchel lying near Finch’s hand. “He had this with him. Looks like…books.” Harlow’s attention narrowed. She reached for the satchel, carefully avoiding disturbing any potential evidence, and opened it. Old books. Very old books. Leather-bound, filled with dense text and strange diagrams. Anya, her predecessor, had always joked that the Met had a dedicated occult crimes unit disguised as ordinary detectives. Harlow hadn't seen the joke at the time – not after Morris. But now…now she wondered. “What are we looking at, Sergeant?” she asked, lifting a volume with brittle pages. It was written in Latin, interspersed with symbols she didn’t recognize. “Looks like someone’s library,” Davies said, shrugging. “Maybe a collector. Maybe he bought it at auction.” Harlow didn’t reply. She knew Davies didn't believe in shadows, in things that slithered at the edges of perception. She didn't *want* to believe either, but three years of unanswered questions had worn her down. “The urban explorers,” she said, after a moment. “Their statements. Have they been checked?” “Of course. Standard procedure. Seemed genuinely shaken up. Said they just stumbled across him while exploring.” “Standard procedure isn’t always good enough, Sergeant.” She glanced around the station, her gaze lingering on the crumbling Art Deco tiles. "This isn’t exactly a popular tourist destination.” A figure emerged from the gloom, holding a small, brass object. Eva Kowalski. She was even more out of place than Finch had been, with her curly red hair and round glasses perched on her nose. "Detective Quinn," Kowalski said, her voice a little breathless. “I…I thought I might be able to help.” Harlow felt a familiar tightening in her chest. Kowalski worked at the British Museum, something to do with ancient texts. She'd consulted with the woman once, after a particularly baffling case involving a stolen amulet. Kowalski's knowledge was…extensive. Unsettlingly so. “Ms. Kowalski,” Harlow acknowledged, her tone cool. “What brings you to an abandoned Tube station at this hour?” Kowalski held up the brass object. It was a compass, but not like any Harlow had seen before. The casing was etched with intricate sigils, and the patina of verdigris spoke of age. The needle, instead of pointing north, spun wildly, then settled on a point just beyond the platform, towards a darkened tunnel. “I felt a disturbance. A…resonance. This compass led me here.” “A compass?” Davies scoffed. “What, like a ghost hunter?” “It’s more complicated than that,” Kowalski said, her green eyes flashing. “This is a Veil Compass. Attuned to supernatural energy. It points towards rifts, portals… places where the veil between worlds is thin.” Harlow ignored Davies's eye roll. Kowalski wasn’t interested in impressing anyone. She just… *knew* things. Things she shouldn't. "And you think Finch stumbled into one of these rifts?" Harlow asked, her gaze fixed on the compass. “It’s possible. This station… it has a history. A confluence of ley lines. A lot of energy. And the Market," Kowalski added quietly. “The Market?” “The Veil Market. It operates in hidden locations, moving with the full moon. This station used to be one of its regular spots. They deal in…unusual goods. Enchanted objects. Forbidden knowledge.” Harlow felt a prickle of unease. The pieces were starting to fall into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. Finch, the art dealer, dealing in "unusual pieces." The strange books. The impossibly clean wound. She turned back to the body, examining the victim’s hands again. There was something… subtly off. Too manicured. Too smooth. She gently pried open Finch’s clenched fist. Inside, nestled amongst the silver locket, was a tiny slip of paper. Harlow carefully unfolded it. It wasn't a note. It was a token. A small piece of bone, carved with a symbol she vaguely recognized from one of Kowalski’s books. “Sergeant,” Harlow said, her voice now low and tight. “Get a complete trace on Alistair Finch. Every transaction, every contact. I want to know everything he’s bought, everything he’s sold, and everyone he’s met in the last six months. And Ms. Kowalski…lead me to that tunnel.” Davies spluttered. “Detective, are you seriously entertaining this…supernatural nonsense?” Harlow didn’t answer. She was already walking towards the darkened tunnel, following the unwavering pull of the Veil Compass. The air grew colder, heavier with each step. The metallic tang in the air intensified. The wrongness deepened. Finch hadn't simply been murdered. He'd been *chosen*. And Harlow knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she was about to step into a world she hadn't believed in, a world that had already taken something from her, and wasn’t finished yet. Morris wouldn’t have missed the bone token. Morris would’ve known. She hadn't been looking hard enough. Not then. Not ever.