AI Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted metal stairs into the bowels of the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, her worn leather watch ticking steadily against her left wrist. The air thickened with the stench of damp concrete and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. Her torch beam sliced through the gloom , catching graffiti-smeared tiles and coils of exposed wiring dangling like veins from the ceiling. Military precision guided her steps: shoulders square, jaw set sharp as a blade. Eighteen years on the force had honed her to this—unflinching, methodical .
PC Ellis had radioed her an hour ago, voice cracking over the line. "Ma'am, you need to see this. It's... not normal. Abandoned station, but there's a market down here? Bodies. And the walls—they're moving."
Quinn had dismissed the hysteria at first. Camden's underbelly bred junkies and squatters, not miracles. But the address pinged familiar : a ghost station shuttered since the Blitz, access sealed tighter than a tomb. Forensics techs had cracked the chained gate with bolt cutters, and now yellow tape fluttered in the stale draft, a feeble ward against whatever madness lurked below.
She ducked under the tape, boots crunching shattered glass. The platform stretched out, but this wasn't the derelict ruin she'd expected. Makeshift stalls lined the tracks: rickety tables draped in black velvet , laden with jars of glowing sludge, amulets pulsing faint light, books bound in hides that didn't look animal. The Veil Market—whispers of it had crossed her desk before, urban legend peddled by paranoid informants. Bone tokens for entry, they said. Moves every full moon. Quinn's brown eyes narrowed . If this was real, it was the motherlode of black market filth. If not, some elaborate squatters' con.
A huddle of uniforms parted as she approached the epicenter: a stall at the platform's edge, overturned crates spilling iridescent powders. Two bodies sprawled amid the debris—a vendor, mid-forties, throat slashed clean across; a buyer, younger, face frozen in a rictus scream, chest caved in like a crushed tin can. Blood pooled black under torchlight, but no spray on the walls, no drag marks. Quinn crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the vendor's neck. Wound too precise, edges cauterized, as if sealed by heat.
"Detective Quinn," a familiar voice cut through the murmurs. Eva Kowalski emerged from the shadows, round glasses perched on her freckled nose, curly red hair tamed into a hasty bun. She clutched her worn leather satchel, stuffed with books that bulged the seams. "I consulted for the museum on the initial report. Restricted artifacts down here—banned stuff. This isn't your standard mugging."
Quinn straightened, bearing rigid. Eva, 26 to her 41, childhood friend of that slippery suspect Aurora Vale. Occult researcher, Oxford pedigree. Quinn had interviewed her twice last month on unrelated "clique" matters—petty thefts escalating to ritual paraphernalia. Colleague now? Convenient. "Kowalski. You cleared for crime scenes?"
Eva tucked a stray curl behind her left ear, green eyes flicking nervously . "British Museum archives liaison. Called in for provenance on the goods. But look." She gestured to the buyer's hand, palm up, fingers curled around a small brass compass, its casing patinaed with verdigris. The face bore etched sigils, protective runes that made Quinn's skin prickle. The needle spun lazily , not north, but toward ... nothing. A blank tile on the far wall.
"Veil Compass," Eva murmured. "Shade-crafted. Points to rifts—supernatural portals. Bought it off the vendor five minutes before... this."
Quinn snapped photos, lens whirring. Evidence didn't add up. Vendor's slash: no weapon nearby. Buyer's chest: ribs shattered inward, no blunt force trauma consistent with fists or pipes. No exit wounds, no blood spatter beyond the pools. And the air—charged , humming faintly, like static before lightning. She paced the stall's perimeter, torch probing shadows. Dust motes swirled unnaturally, coiling toward that blank wall tile.
"First take: robbery gone south," PC Ellis ventured, clipboard in hand. Lanky kid, first big scene. "Buyer pulls knife, vendor fights back with some improvised club. Panic, they kill each other."
Quinn's jaw tightened. "No. Buyer clutching the compass like a lifeline. Defensive posture—arms up, but no defensive wounds. Vendor facedown, away from the buyer. Wrong angles."
Eva nodded, satchel thumping against her hip. "Exactly. And the compass—it's attuned. If it was pointing to a rift..."
"Save the ghost stories, Kowalski." Quinn's voice was steel, but her watch hand itched, memory flashing: DS Morris, three years gone . Disappeared mid-case, body never found. Unexplained lights, shadows that moved wrong. Official report: AWOL. Quinn knew better. "Stick to facts. Blood congealed too fast—viscous, almost gelled. Toxicology?"
"Pending," Ellis said. "But ma'am, the walls. Techs swear they heard whispers. And this powder—" He toed a shimmering pile . "Burns like acid, but no residue on the bodies."
Quinn knelt again, sifting the powder between fingers. Cool, then searing —sigils on the compass mirrored those in the dust. Her gaze tracked the buyer's eyes: pupils blown wide , whites veined black. Not drugs. Not natural. She rose, strode to the blank tile. Torchlight revealed faint cracks, hairline fractures radiating outward, as if something had punched through from the other side.
"Compass needle," she said flatly . "Where's it pointing now?"
Eva leaned in, breath fogging the glass. "Right here. Dead on."
Quinn pressed her palm to the tile. Cold, then a jolt—like static shock amplified. The cracks pulsed faintly, a heartbeat. She withdrew, mind racing . Timeline: Ellis's team arrived 20 minutes post-999 call from a "witness" who bolted. Bodies fresh, rigor not set. But the market—empty now, stalls abandoned mid-haggle. Footprints in the dust led everywhere and nowhere: scuffled, overlapping, then vanishing mid-stride.
"Ellis, bag the compass. Dust for prints on every vial." Quinn circled back to the bodies. Vendor's pockets: bone token, engraved with a sigil matching the compass. Entry key. Buyer's wallet: mundane ID, £200 cash untouched. Not robbery.
Eva hovered, tucking hair again. "Harlow, listen. Veil Market's no myth. Bone token gets you in—supernatural vetting. Sells rift-touched goods. That compass? It doesn't just point; it pulls. If a rift opened here—"
"Rifts." Quinn snorted, but her eyes lingered on the needle, still twitching toward the wall . Deduction clicked: powder burns without residue meant otherworldly heat. Blood gelled from rapid coagulation—cold vacuum? Chest implosion: pressure drop, like explosive decompression. Throat cauterized: plasma edge, not blade.
She grabbed Ellis's torch, aimed it at the ceiling. Cobwebs dusted conduits, but one gap—fresh, edges frayed. Something dropped from above? No. She climbed a crate, peered into the duct. Blackness, but a glint : another bone token, wedged deep.
"Got your third player," Quinn called down. "Token in the vents. Someone watched."
Eva's eyes widened . "Watcher. Shade? Or—"
Quinn dropped, boots thudding. "Human. Prints will tell." But the fractures pulsed again, stronger. The compass, now in an evidence bag on Ellis's belt, jerked against the plastic, needle slamming the glass.
"Secure that," Quinn barked. Ellis fumbled; the bag split, compass skittering across tiles. Needle locked on the wall—and the cracks spiderwebbed wider. A hiss escaped, air pressure shifting. Dust vortexed inward.
"Back!" Quinn shoved Eva behind a stall. The tile exploded outward in a shower of porcelain shards. No body, no weapon—just a shimmer, like heat haze, rippling the air. Whispers slithered out: sibilant, layered, promising secrets.
Quinn's pulse hammered, watch ticking louder in her ears. Morris's case—lights in the fog, shadows peeling from walls. This was it. Not ghosts. Rifts. Real.
Eva whispered, "Told you. Portal. Buyer activated the compass wrong—pulled something through. Vendor tried to seal it, got slashed by the edge. Watcher fled via vents."
Quinn's mind pieced it: compass as trigger, not loot. Buyer tests it, rift cracks open. Entity lashes out—implodes chest, sears throat. Watcher drops token in panic. Evidence "doesn't add up" because half the crime's extradimensional.
She advanced on the rift, torch steady. The shimmer recoiled, whispers fading. "Ellis, gas the area. Kowalski—satchel. Got a containment rune?"
Eva blinked, then nodded, digging out a dog-eared tome. "Page 47. But Harlow, you're seeing it now."
Quinn's sharp jaw clenched . "Facts first. Supernatural second." But as Eva chanted low, sigils glowing on the page, the rift shrank. Quinn holstered her torch, gaze hardening on the compass. Suspects: the clique. Aurora's crew frequented occult dives. This market was their playground.
The whispers died. Bodies bagged, stall taped. But Quinn lingered, watch glinting verdigris-green in the dying light. Three years chasing shadows, and now they stared back. The evidence added up—to hell.
Ellis radioed SOCO for rift scans—"anomalous readings"—while Eva packed her book, freckles stark against paling skin. "You okay?"
Quinn adjusted her cuff, military crisp. "Better than Morris." She turned for the stairs, compass burning a hole in the evidence log. The hunt was on. Clique first. Rifts next. No more unexplained.
But as she climbed, the station groaned—a full moon shift? The Market would vanish by dawn. Quinn's brown eyes gleamed. She'd find it again. Bone token or not.