Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAJSPNNB7QZV0TVM414J91

Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted spiral staircase into the guts of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Her flashlight beam sliced through the gloom, catching flickers of bioluminescent fungi clinging to cracked tiles. The air thickened with incense and rot, voices murmuring in tongues that twisted her gut. She gripped the bone token—snatched from a junkie's pocket during last night's raid—tight in her fist. Military boots echoed on the slick platform as shadows parted. Hooded figures in patchwork cloaks slunk aside, eyes glinting like oil slicks. Uniformed constables clustered around a cordoned stall at the far end of the platform, where vaulted ceilings dripped condensation. Overturned crates spilled vials of shimmering liquid and scrolls etched with glowing runes. The Veil Market thrummed despite the tape—vendors haggling over jars of writhing smoke, a hag with goat horns peddling cursed dice. Quinn ducked under the tape. Her salt-and-pepper hair caught the dim glow of a hanging lantern. Sharp jaw set, she scanned the body sprawled amid the debris. Male, Shade artisan by the pallor—skin like smoked glass, veins pulsing faint indigo. Throat slashed ear to ear, chest riddled with jagged punctures. Blood pooled black and viscous, soaking his robes. No weapon in sight. A small brass compass lay clutched in his rigid fingers, face etched with sigils, verdigris patina gleaming wet. "Eva Kowalski." Quinn's voice cut through the chatter. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist as she crouched closer. Eva spun from where she knelt by a splintered table, round glasses slipping down her freckled nose. Curly red hair tumbled loose; she tucked a strand behind her left ear. Her worn leather satchel slumped nearby, books spilling out—tomes on rifts and bindings. At 5'4", she looked swallowed by the chaos, green eyes sharp behind the lenses. "Detective Quinn. You made it through the token ward." Eva stood, brushing dust from her jeans. "Market's in uproar. They almost sealed the arches." Quinn's brown eyes flicked to the constables snapping photos. One uniform retched into a corner. She straightened, 5'9" frame snapping to military precision. "Body's fresh. Rigor not set. Time of death, midnight?" Eva nodded, pulling a notebook from her satchel. "Forensics pegged it half past. But look here." She pointed to the floor, chalk outline already fading into cracks. "Sigils burned into the tiles. Protective wards, inverted. Someone cracked open a rift—pulled him through, maybe. Shades don't bleed like this; it's ichor, not blood. Ritual killing, I'd bet my Oxford degree." Quinn knelt again, gloved fingers hovering over the compass. Needle jittered, spinning erratic circles instead of locking north. Protective sigils on the face pulsed faint blue, then dimmed. She pried it from the corpse's grip. Cold metal bit her palm. "Rift?" Quinn's gaze swept the stall. Shelves groaned under half-empty jars—essence of nightmare, phoenix ash. A ledger lay open, pages smeared. Last entry: "Compass delivery—client paid double for silence." Eva crouched beside her, voice low. "Veil Compass. Points to rifts, portals. Artisan crafted it himself—only one in the Market. If those sigils match, killer summoned something hungry. Dragged him in, spat the body back. Explains the punctures—no blade marks clean like that." Quinn traced a wound on the Shade's chest. Edges ragged, cauterized black. No spatter on the walls, though the pool suggested arterial spray. She rocked back on heels, boots grinding glass phials underfoot. "Blood volume's off. Pool covers two meters, but wounds shallow. No spray trajectory." She stood, circling the stall. Constables parted. Footprints muddled the tiles—human boots, size ten, mixed with claw drags. "Killer stabbed him here, stood over the body. But ichor stays pooled. No drag, no smears to a rift site." Eva followed, satchel bumping her hip. She tucked hair again, glasses fogging in the damp. "Rifts warp physics. Ichor clings—gravity bends. Museum archives have cases: '92 in Whitechapel, body bisected, no mess." Quinn stopped at the ledger. Flipped pages. Entries in Shade cant—translated scrawls beside: "Client: E.K.—compass attuned, extra wards." Her jaw tightened. E.K. Eva Kowalski. She snapped the book shut. "You bought from him." Statement, not question. Watch ticked louder in the hush. Eva's freckles stood stark. "Research. Rifts spiking near the Thames. Needed a locator." She gestured wide. "This? Unrelated. Look at the sigils—circle's incomplete. Amateur botch, summoned a lesser imp. Imp shredded him, fled the rift." Quinn pocketed the compass. Needle still whirled. She shone her light along the platform edge. Rails long ripped out, now a pit dropping into black. Faint shimmer there—air rippled like heat haze. Constable Hargrove lumbered over, notepad out. Young, paunchy, sweat beading on his brow. "Ma'am. Witnesses scatter like roaches. Vendor across says 'rift fiend' got him. No one saw a soul." Quinn ignored him, strode to the pit. Leaned over, beam piercing the ripple. Tiles at the lip scorched, not sigil-burned—straight heat char, like exhaust. She scraped a sample into a vial. Back to the body. "Punctures match imp claws. But charring's wrong." She pointed. "Sigils inverted for summoning—true. But look closer." Gloved finger on the Shade's palm. Faint residue—brass shavings, verdigris flecks. "Held the compass tight. Needle points to rifts. If imp came through, it'd lock here." Eva peered, breath quick. "Maybe jammed. Rift energy overload." Quinn shook her head once. Pulled the compass. Held it level. Needle slowed, quivered—pointed straight at Eva's satchel. She snapped her gaze up. "Overload doesn't spin it toward you." Eva froze, hand twitching to her hair. "Detective—" Quinn cut her off, voice steel. "Ledger: E.K. paid double for silence. Artisan dead hours after delivery. Your boot print—size seven, left heel worn." She nodded to the floor. "Matches the trail to the pit. But no claws there. Just scorch from a portal hop." Constables murmured. Hargrove gawked. Eva's green eyes darted. "Circumstantial. I was here earlier—research. Anyone could've—" Quinn advanced, compass needle steady now, boring into the satchel. "Ichor pool—no rift warp. Killer drained him first. Slit throat postmortem, stabbed to mimic claws. Staged the sigils sloppy—pulled from a book." She tapped Eva's satchel. "Your books. Open one." Eva clutched it. "You can't—" "Open it." Reluctant fingers unzipped. Top book flopped open: diagram of inverted sigils, chalk dust on the edges. Quinn snatched it. "Traced these here. Why stage a rift when you had the compass?" Quinn's bearing loomed, 5'9" eclipsing Eva's frame. "Artisan knew too much. You silenced him. Used his own tool to slip out—pit's a stable portal, compass guided you. Backtracked, dumped the body." Eva backed a step, tucking hair furiously. "Madness. I'm no killer. Clique's clean—" Quinn's laugh barked short. "Clique. Your little occult club. Aurora's pals, dabbling in black market toys." She waved the compass. Needle locked on a bulge in the satchel—a second compass? No, something pulsing. "What's that? Twin?" Hargrove radioed for backup. Market whispers swelled—horns honked, wings rustled. Eva's voice dropped to hiss. "Quinn, listen. Real killer's worse. Rift's unstable—" Quinn lunged, yanked the satchel open. Inside, amid books, a vial of indigo ichor glowed. Matching the pool. And beneath—a bone-handled knife, blade crusted black. "Explains the punctures." Quinn lifted it, light catching runes. "Yours?" Eva bolted. Quinn lunged after, boots pounding tiles. Constables shouted. Market erupted—stalls toppled, figures fled into shadows. Compass flew from her pocket, needle whipping wild as the pit shimmered wider. She tackled Eva at the platform edge, freckled arms pinned. "Talk. Who'd you deliver for?" Eva bucked, glasses cracking on the ground. "Not me! Client—shadow broker. Compass finds rifts for a heist. Big one." Quinn wrenched her wrists back. "Broker named Aurora?" Laughter bubbled from Eva. "You chase ghosts, Detective. Morris died chasing them too." Quinn's watch froze. Tick stopped. Pit roared open behind, wind howling essence. Needle on the ground spun to her.