Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAT7Z6VJAK4G0R11X1YNX0

Rain slicked the grimy brick of the abandoned Tube station, reflecting the flickering neon glow of a nearby sign. Camden Lock bustled above, oblivious to the cavernous space below. The air tasted of damp concrete and something else… something acrid and faintly floral, like rotting lilies. Detective Harlow Quinn ignored the chill seeping into her bones, her gaze sweeping the scene. The Veil Market, they called it. A whispered legend amongst the precinct, a place where things bought and sold shouldn't exist. Now, it was a crime scene. A body lay sprawled on the cracked tiles, illuminated by the harsh glare of forensic lamps. A man, mid-thirties, dressed in oddly antiquated clothes—a velvet waistcoat, lace cuffs, high-waisted trousers— everything meticulously clean despite the surroundings. No sign of struggle, no obvious wounds. Just… stillness. Sergeant Davies hovered nearby, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Clean, isn't it, Quinn?" he offered, adjusting his collar. "Too clean, almost. Looks staged, doesn't it?" Quinn knelt beside the body, careful not to disturb anything. The man's eyes were wide and vacant, staring at the ceiling. She noticed a peculiar stillness to his limbs, unnatural even in death. “Clean doesn’t equal staged, Davies. It equals prepared.” Her fingers brushed against the man’s waistcoat. Fine wool, expertly tailored. Expensive. This wasn’t a random visitor to the underbelly of Camden. “The ME’s already on their way. Preliminary report indicates… no blood. No signs of trauma. Cardiac arrest, they reckon.” Davies shuffled his feet, avoiding her gaze. "Could be a natural cause, Quinn. Bad heart. Wrong place to have it, maybe." Quinn’s eyes scanned the immediate area, cataloging every detail. The stall where the man had been found was meticulously arranged – bolts of shimmering, otherworldly fabric, glass bottles filled with viscous liquids, and a scattering of strange, dried herbs. The stall owner, a gaunt woman with eyes like polished obsidian, was being held by two uniformed officers. Silent, uncooperative. “Natural cause in a place like this?” Quinn asked, her voice low, gravelly. She picked up a small, intricately carved wooden box from the counter. It was empty. “In a market that traffics in things that defy explanation?” She tapped the box against her palm, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. “Look, Quinn,” Davies said, his voice rising slightly, “we both know this place is… unusual. But we can’t go letting folklore dictate our investigations. We stick to the facts. Cardiac arrest. End of story.” Quinn ignored him, her attention drawn to something else entirely. A faint, shimmering residue on the floor, just beyond the stall. It was almost invisible, like heat rising off asphalt on a summer day, but she saw it. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the shimmering surface. It felt… cold, oddly devoid of energy. "What's that?" Davies asked, peering over her shoulder. He squinted. "Just dust, isn’t it?" "No," Quinn murmured, her eyes narrowed. She pulled out a small evidence bag, carefully scooping up a sample of the residue. It clung stubbornly to the plastic. "This isn't dust. This is… displacement." She stood, her gaze sweeping the entire stall. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The lack of blood was a red herring, a deliberate distraction. But what was the real anomaly? Her eyes landed on the compass. A Veil Compass – a notoriously difficult item to acquire, even within the Market itself. It sat amidst the fabrics, its small brass casing gleaming under the harsh lights. The face was etched with protective sigils, and a patina of verdigris coated its surface. The needle spun erratically for a moment before settling, trembling slightly. It pointed… upwards. Towards the ceiling. “Davies, get me a forensics team specializing in—” “Quinn, hold on.” Davies cut her off, gesturing towards the body. “Look at his hands. See anything odd?” Quinn followed his gaze. The man’s hands were clasped together, resting on his chest. She leaned closer, examining them carefully. The fingernails were impeccably clean, trimmed short. But something was off… The skin around his fingernails was unusually pale, almost translucent. And beneath the skin, visible through the sheer thinness, were faint, delicate tracings of… symbols. Not tattoos. Not birthmarks. Something else entirely. She pulled out her phone, snapping a photograph. “Send this to Dr. Ellis at the university. Tell her to prioritize it. I want to know what those are.” Davies frowned. “Symbols? You’re getting fanciful now, Quinn.” “Fanciful keeps people alive, Davies. You stick to the facts, I’ll stick to the anomalies.” Quinn glanced back at the woman being questioned. "Get a linguistic expert down here, too. Someone who specializes in obscure languages… and glyphs." She turned her attention back to the compass, tracing the sigils on its casing with her finger. It was pointing towards the ceiling. But why? There was no rift, no portal up there. At least, not that she could sense. A sudden memory flickered in her mind—a blurry image of her late partner, DS Morris, staring at a similar compass, his face etched with a mixture of fear and fascination. He’d been investigating something, something she'd barely glimpsed before he… disappeared. “Davies, check the structural plans for this station,” she ordered, her voice sharper now. “I want to know every passage, every hidden chamber. And I want it yesterday.” “Quinn, with all due respect, you’re chasing shadows—” “Then shine a light on them, Sergeant. Because I’m telling you, something is very wrong here.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the shimmering residue on the floor. "This wasn't a death. This was an extraction." The floral scent intensified, clinging to the air like a shroud. Quinn felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine. This wasn’t just about a dead man in an unusual place. This was about something far bigger, something far more dangerous. Her eyes flicked to her watch. Worn leather, a constant reminder of Morris. She adjusted it on her left wrist. “Get me everything you can on Shade artisans. Specifically, those known to craft compasses.” Quinn instructed, her voice clipped. Davies sighed dramatically. "Reluctantly, Quinn.” Quinn ignored him. She was already lost in the labyrinth of clues, the layers of deception peeling away one by one. The Veil Market was more than just a black market. It was a gate. And someone, or something, had just passed through. A muffled cough broke the silence. The woman being questioned, the obsidian-eyed vendor, finally spoke. "He shouldn't have looked," she rasped, her voice surprisingly soft, laced with a tremor.