Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAG278MFF2ZQ0ZN5DJE7E4

The air tasted of dust and something else, something metallic and old. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the collar of her coat, a futile gesture against the chill that clung to the abandoned Tube station. Camden Town station, but not the one anyone used anymore. This was beneath it, a skeletal network of tunnels and platforms swallowed by darkness decades ago. Now, it pulsed with a different kind of energy, a low thrum that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She scanned the scene. Yellow tape crisscrossed the platform, attempting to contain the impossible. A body, sprawled near a disused ticket booth, illuminated by the harsh glare of portable floodlights. Male, mid-thirties, expensive suit ruined by a spreading crimson stain. Classic gangland execution, at first glance. Except… “Clean,” she muttered, her voice rough. “Too clean.” DS Davies, young, eager, already documenting the scene with a digital camera, looked up. “What’s that, Detective?” “The kill. No struggle. No signs of forced entry. Just…placed.” She moved closer, her gaze sweeping over the victim. No defensive wounds. The single gunshot wound, precise, to the chest. Professional, yes. But sterile. “Looks open and shut to me,” Davies offered, snapping another photo. “Dispute over territory, probably. We’ve had a little uptick in the Veil Market’s influence, haven’t we?” Harlow stopped, her gaze fixed on Davies. He used the colloquial term—the Veil Market. Good. It meant he wasn’t entirely oblivious. “Influence, yes. A direct hit like this? Not so much.” She crouched, ignoring the protesting creak of her knees, and examined the floor around the body. The concrete was surprisingly clean. No scuff marks, no broken glass, nothing disturbed beyond the immediate area of the corpse. “He wasn't robbed,” Davies stated, reading from his notes. “Wallet still present, watch intact. Expensive watch, at that.” “Which is precisely why it’s wrong,” Harlow said, her fingers tracing the edge of the ticket booth. The metal was cold, slick with moisture. “If it’s a robbery gone wrong, they take everything. Everything of value.” “Maybe it wasn’t about the money, then?” Davies suggested, hovering slightly too close. Harlow stood, her 5’9” frame towering over Davies. “Maybe. Or maybe, we’re looking at this entirely the wrong way.” She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them on with practiced efficiency. She began a systematic search, starting with the victim’s pockets. Nothing but a phone – a burner, naturally – and a small, intricately carved bone token. “Now that’s interesting,” she said, carefully bagging the token. “Recognize this, Davies?” Davies peered at the evidence bag. “Looks like… bone? Some kind of amulet?” “The entry requirement for the Veil Market,” Harlow stated flatly. “This man was a regular.” “The Market?” Davies’ voice rose in pitch. “You think this is related to…all that?” Harlow gave him a withering look. “What did you think this was, a knitting circle gone wrong? This isn’t some petty squabble between street gangs, Davies. This is…something else.” The thrumming sensation in the air seemed to intensify, now accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone. She circled the body again, her eyes now focused on the details others might miss. A faint, shimmering residue on the platform near the victim’s head. It was almost invisible, like heat rising off asphalt on a summer day. She pulled out a small, portable UV light from her satchel and swept it across the area. The residue flared to life, revealing a complex pattern of glowing symbols etched into the concrete. “Well, now,” Harlow murmured, her sharp jaw tightening. “That’s not standard issue gangland graffiti.” “What is it?” Davies asked, craning his neck to see. “Protection sigils, Davies. Crude, but present. Someone was trying to ward this area.” “Ward it from what?” Harlow didn’t answer. Her attention was drawn to something else. On the wall behind the ticket booth, obscured by shadows, she noticed a tiny, almost imperceptible scratch mark. It wasn't new, but it was out of place. She touched it cautiously, feeling a slight indentation in the concrete. She traced the path of the scratch, revealing a hidden panel, cleverly concealed within the wall. Using her pen as a lever, she pried it open. Inside was a small, velvet-lined box. And inside the box…a compass. A small brass compass, the casing heavily patinated with verdigris. The face was etched with intricate sigils, and the needle, instead of pointing north, spun wildly, then settled, quivering, towards a darkened section of the tunnel. “What is it?” Davies asked, his voice barely a whisper. “A Veil Compass,” Harlow said, her fingers closing around the cool metal. “Attuned to supernatural energy. Points to the nearest rift, the nearest…disturbance.” She glanced at the needle’s unwavering direction. “And right now, it's pointing that way.” She looked back at Davies. “You were right, about the Market. They’re involved. But not in the way you think. This wasn’t about territory. This was about…containing something.” She felt a growing dread settle in her stomach, a cold, familiar weight. It reminded her of the case three years ago, the one that took Morris. The one she still couldn't explain. “Containing what, Detective?” Harlow didn't answer immediately. The air throbbed with that strange energy, growing stronger with each passing moment. She ran a hand over her closely cropped hair, her worn leather watch digging into her wrist. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the growing panic. Morris. The distorted shadows. The sense of…wrongness. “Something escaped, Davies,” she said, her voice low and grim. “And our friend here? He wasn’t a victim. He was damage control.” She looked at the compass again, the needle still pointing insistently into the darkness. “And I think it's time we found out what that something is.” She met Davies’ gaze. He was pale, his eagerness replaced with a visible tremor. “You with me?” Davies swallowed hard. “Yes, Detective.” Harlow nodded, already moving towards the darkness, the Veil Compass leading the way. The scent of ozone was stronger now, mingling with the smell of dust and decay. A prickling sensation ran down her spine. She had a feeling this case wasn’t going to be like any other. It felt…larger. Ancient. And terrifyingly familiar. She thought of Morris, and the unexplained circumstances surrounding his death. Perhaps, after all this time, she was finally about to find some answers. But she suspected those answers would come at a terrible cost.