Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAH4ZDN0YHDF8MJTSD2GM5

Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs, her boots clanging against each step like a metronome counting down to chaos. The air thickened with the scent of damp stone and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the metallic tang of blood mixed with herbs she couldn't name. Flashlights bobbed ahead, cutting through the gloom of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Uniformed officers milled about the platform, their faces pale under the harsh beams, voices hushed as if speaking too loud might summon whatever had turned this place into a slaughterhouse. She checked her worn leather watch: 2:17 a.m. The call had yanked her from a fitful sleep, the kind haunted by echoes of DS Morris's last breath three years back. Unexplained. Supernatural, her gut screamed, but reports dismissed it. Not tonight. This crime scene reeked of the same shadows. "Quinn," a sergeant grunted from the edge of the taped-off area, a coil of yellow barrier fluttering in the stale draft. "Down here. Worst I've seen in years." She nodded, eyes scanning the tiled walls cracked like old porcelain, faded advertisements for long-gone cigarettes peeling under grime. The platform stretched into darkness, track beds empty and choked with debris. But this wasn't just any derelict spot. Whispers in the precinct spoke of the Veil Market—some underground bazaar peddling forbidden trinkets, vanishing every full moon. Tonight's moon hung fat overhead, though buried deep, its pull felt in the chill that seeped into her bones. Her gaze locked on the body sprawled across the center of the platform. A man, mid-forties, dressed in a threadbare coat stained with what looked like ink and worse. His throat gaped open, a ragged slash that wept dark fluid onto the concrete. No pool of blood, though—just smears trailing toward a nearby archway, as if he'd crawled after the attack. Around him, scattered stalls of makeshift tables: vials of shimmering liquid, amulets etched with symbols that twisted her stomach, bundles of dried roots. The market's remnants, raided or abandoned in haste. "Victim's name is Elias Thorne," the sergeant continued, flipping open a notebook. "Local fence, they say. Known for dealing in oddities. Found him like this an hour ago by a patrol that chased a tip. No weapon. No witnesses. But get this—wounds look like claws, not a blade." Claws. Quinn crouched beside the body, gloved hands hovering over the edges of the cut. The flesh parted clean, no jagged tears, but the depth suggested force beyond human grip. She traced the air above the neck, noting how the skin puckered unnaturally, as if seared from the inside. Blood should have sprayed, arced across the tiles. Instead, it congealed fast, almost dry. She straightened, jaw tightening. Military precision in her stance kept her steady, but her mind raced. Footsteps echoed from the stairs—light, hurried. Eva Kowalski emerged, curly red hair frizzing in the humidity, round glasses slipping down her freckled nose. She clutched her worn leather satchel, stuffed with books that thudded against her hip. At 5'4", she looked swallowed by the station's vastness, but her green eyes sharpened on the scene, tucking a stray curl behind her left ear—a tell Quinn had clocked during their reluctant consultations. "Harlow," Eva said, voice steady despite the flicker of unease. She sidestepped an officer, dropping to her knees beside the body without invitation. "Museum got the alert. Restricted archives flagged this location hours ago. You're welcome." Quinn crossed her arms. "Didn't call for you, Kowalski. This is a crime scene, not a field trip." Eva ignored her, pulling a small notebook from her satchel. Her fingers flew across the page, sketching the amulets nearby. "Elias Thorne. Dealt in Veil Market scraps. See those vials? Essence of nightshade, banned since the 1800s. Alchemical. And this—" She pointed to a sigil carved into the platform stone, faint but deliberate. "Warding rune. Meant to keep shades out. Failed spectacularly." Shades. Quinn's pulse quickened. The word dragged up Morris's file—shadowy figures glimpsed in witness statements, dismissed as hysteria. Eva pushed her glasses up, meeting Quinn's stare. "Look at the wounds. Not claws. Energy residue. Supernatural tear. Whatever got him phased through the ward, drained him dry. No blood spray because it evaporated—siphoned into the ether." Quinn knelt again, closer this time, her brown eyes narrowing on the body's hand. Clutched in his fist, half-crushed, a small brass compass. Patina of verdigris coated its face, etched with sigils that matched the platform's rune. The needle spun lazily, not pointing north, but twitching toward the archway where the blood trail vanished. "Energy residue," Quinn echoed, voice flat. She pried the compass free, holding it to the light. "You mean fairy tales. Evidence says attack from behind—struggle marks on his coat, fibers caught in the wound edges. Human height, based on angle. Killer dragged him, then bolted when patrol showed." Eva snorted, standing with a rustle of her satchel. "Struggle marks? That's residue from the rift. Veil Market sits on a nexus point. Portals bleed energy here. Thorne probably triggered something—crossed a shade or worse. Fibers? Could be from the other side. Look at the trail. It stops cold under the arch. No footprints beyond. Killer didn't drag him; the body phased partway." Quinn followed the trail with her flashlight. Smears of blood, yes, but they thinned abruptly, dissolving into faint scorch marks on the concrete. No scuffs, no drag lines in the dust. Her sharp jaw clenched. Officers murmured nearby, one snapping photos of the stalls, another bagging a vial that hissed when touched. "Phased," Quinn repeated, turning the compass in her palm. The needle jerked sharper now, aligning toward the archway's shadow. She glanced at Eva. "What's this thing?" Eva leaned in, breath catching. "Veil Compass. Points to rifts. Crafted by Shade artisans—traders from the market. If it's active, there's an open portal right there. Thorne must've been using it to navigate deals. Got too close." Quinn pocketed the compass, ignoring the faint hum against her skin. She paced to the archway, beam cutting through cobwebs thick as veils. Beyond, the tunnel swallowed light, but her eyes caught anomalies: tiles shifted, not cracked but displaced, as if pushed by an unseen force. Dust patterns swirled in unnatural eddies, circulating without wind. She knelt, gloved finger tracing a groove in the wall—too precise for decay, like a claw but elongated, phased through stone. "Human killer bolts," Quinn muttered. "But why no blood pool? Coagulant on the blade? Or..." She stood, facing Eva. "Your rift theory. If energy siphoned it, the body's desiccated fast. Matches the lack of spray." Eva's eyes widened, tucking hair again. "Finally seeing it? Shades don't leave bodies whole. They consume. But this one's intact—partial feed. Interrupted." Quinn shook her head, mind piecing fragments. The compass's hum grew insistent, vibrating through her watchband. She pulled it out, watching the needle dance. Not random—pulsing in rhythm with a low thrum from the tunnel, felt more than heard. Officers paused, heads tilting as if catching it too. "Interruptus," Quinn said. "Patrol spooked it. But Thorne's hand—clutching the compass. Defensive. He knew it was coming." Eva nodded, flipping her notebook. "Market lore: compasses attune to users. If he was marked—tattoo or pact—it locked on him. Shades track that energy." Quinn's gaze snapped to Thorne's wrist, sleeve ridden up in the fall. Faint ink there, a sigil mirroring the compass's etchings. Fresh, by the redness. "He summoned it. Or bought it wrong." She strode toward the tunnel, Eva trailing. "Hold up, Harlow. Without wards, you step in, you're next." Quinn flashed her light deeper. Shadows writhed, not tricks of the beam—tendrils coiling like smoke. The thrum intensified, compass burning hot in her pocket. Deduction clicked: no human killer fled; the entity retreated, wounded or sated, but left echoes. The evidence—dissolved blood, phased trail, active compass—pointed not to a partner or rival, but to the Veil's underbelly bleeding into their world. "Sergeant!" Quinn barked over her shoulder. "Seal this tunnel. No one enters." The man hustled over, face ashen. "Ma'am?" She jabbed a finger toward the arch. "Supernatural breach. That's the missing piece. Thorne opened a door; it bit back." Eva gripped her satchel strap, voice low. "Told you. Now what? Close it?" Quinn drew her sidearm, the weight familiar, grounding. The compass's needle steadied, pointing into the dark. "We follow. Carefully." The thrum pulsed once more, and a whisper slithered from the shadows—inhuman, beckoning. Officers froze, flashlights wavering. Quinn stepped forward, Eva at her side, the station's chill giving way to an unnatural warmth, as if the Veil hungered for more. Deeper in, the walls shimmered, tiles blurring at the edges. Quinn's boot crunched on something brittle—not debris, but bone, etched with the same sigils. Another victim? No, older, part of the market's foundation. The air hummed with latent power, vials from the stalls glowing faintly in officers' evidence bags, as if awakening. Eva whispered, "The compass—it's pulling us to the rift's heart. Thorne must've crossed a dealer. Shades don't forgive debts." Quinn nodded, piecing it: the wound's angle suggested attack from above, not behind. Phasing entity, dropping through the ward. Fibers? Not coat threads—ethereal wisps, caught in the tear. She scanned the ceiling, light catching faint cracks radiating from a central point. Entry vector. "Up there," she said. "It came from the nexus." Eva sketched furiously. "Classic Shade ambush. They mimic rifts, slip in silent." A officer yelped behind them, dropping a bagged amulet. It shattered on the ground, releasing a puff of green mist that twisted into shapes—faces, fleeting. Panic rippled through the team. "Contain it!" Quinn ordered, voice cutting sharp. She advanced, compass out now, its verdigris face pulsing like a heartbeat. The needle locked, unwavering. The tunnel widened into a chamber, market stalls crumbling against walls alive with graffiti—symbols that seemed to shift when unobserved. In the center, a swirl of darkness hung, a tear in reality, edges frayed like torn fabric. The blood trail ended there, absorbed into the void. Quinn halted, gun raised. "That's our killer's exit." Eva's breath hitched. "Or entry. Touch it, and you're through." Observation locked it: the swirl contracted slightly, as if breathing. Inside, glimpses—stalls, figures cloaked in shadow, the market in full swing elsewhere. Thorne's slash? A backlash from crossing unprepared. Quinn holstered her weapon, mind racing deductions. No human handiwork. The colleague's words rang true, but incomplete. Shades followed pacts; the compass tied Thorne to it. Destroy it, seal the rift? She extended the device toward the swirl. It resisted, needle bending backward. "Not that simple," Eva murmured. "Bound item. Needs ritual." Quinn's eyes narrowed. The pieces aligned: the entity's retreat left a echo-trail, compass as lure. Others missed the supernatural overlay, chalking it to drugs or gang hit. But she saw—the patina's glow, sigils igniting faintly. Deduction whispered: Thorne wasn't victim; bait. A low growl emanated from the swirl, shadows lengthening. Quinn tensed, ready.