Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAKYX2CWJE9XE3CWJACY3Y

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the air like a low hum. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, her boots crunching on shattered glass. The flickering overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the graffiti-scarred walls—tags that hadn’t been there yesterday, if the crime scene photos were to be believed. DS Morris’s name tag still hung on the evidence board, its plastic edges frayed. Quinn exhaled through her nose, the sharp tang of antiseptic and something metallic—copper, maybe—stinging her throat. She didn’t touch the tag. Never had. “You’re late,” said a voice from behind her. Quinn turned. Forensics had already cordoned off the main chamber, their white suits glowing under the sickly fluorescents. But it wasn’t one of them. A woman in a rumpled trench coat stood near the edge of the platform, her fingers tapping against a worn leather satchel. Red curls escaped her glasses, and her freckled cheeks had gone pale. “Eva,” Quinn said. Not a question. Eva Kowalski didn’t flinch. “You didn’t think to call me when they found the body?” Quinn ignored the jab. “You’re not supposed to be here.” “Neither are you, technically.” Eva jerked her chin toward the body bag on the tracks. “But here we both are.” Quinn stepped closer, her sharp jaw tightening. The platform stretched ahead, the tiles cracked and sunken in places, as if the ground itself had shifted. The body lay near the old ticket barrier, its limbs arranged too symmetrically, like a marionette’s. No blood. No struggle marks. Just a single, deep gash across the throat—clean, precise. “Suicide,” said the uniformed officer nearby, his voice too loud in the hollow space. “Jumped. Left a note.” Quinn didn’t look at him. She crouched, her gloved fingers brushing the edge of the barrier. The metal was cold, but not with the usual chill of the underground. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. “You feel that?” she muttered. Eva didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Quinn stood, her gaze sweeping the platform. The graffiti wasn’t just tags. Some of it was writing—old, looping script carved into the walls. Not English. Not any language she recognised. The air smelled of ozone now, sharp and electric, like before a storm. “What the hell is this place?” she asked, low. Eva’s fingers twitched toward her satchel. “You know what it is.” Quinn’s watch face glinted in the light. The second hand ticked too fast. “No. I don’t.” A beat of silence. Then Eva exhaled, sharp. “The Veil Market moves tonight. They’re already packing up.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d heard the whispers—underground chatter about a black market that only appeared under the full moon, where things that shouldn’t exist changed hands. But she’d never believed it. Not until now. She turned back to the body. The note was still in the officer’s hand. Quinn snatched it. *The Veil takes what it’s owed.* No signature. No name. Just those words, scrawled in the same looping script as the graffiti. “This isn’t suicide,” Quinn said, voice flat. “This is a message.” Eva’s glasses slid down her nose. “And you’re just realising that now?” Quinn ignored her. She pulled out her phone, snapped a photo of the script. The screen flickered—once, twice—before the image glitched, pixels bleeding into static. “What the—?” she muttered. Eva was already moving, her satchel hitting the ground with a thud. She pulled out a small brass compass, its face etched with sigils that seemed to shift when Quinn looked too long. The needle spun wildly before settling on the tracks, pointing toward the body. “The Veil Compass,” Eva said. “It’s attuned to rifts. And this”—she tapped the note—“this isn’t just a threat. It’s an invitation.” Quinn’s fingers curled around the compass. The metal was warm. Too warm. “You’ve been here before,” she said. Eva didn’t meet her eyes. “Once. Three years ago.” Quinn’s breath caught. The same year Morris died. Eva’s voice dropped. “The last time I saw him, he was standing right where you are now. Talking to a man with no face.” Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. The compass needle jerked again, this time toward the far end of the platform, where the darkness swallowed the tracks whole. “Something’s coming,” Eva said. Quinn didn’t look away from the compass. “Then we’d better be ready.”