Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAX1RM0ZR41P70FG1QKEF3

Harlow’s boots thudded against damp Tube station tiles, each step measured to the tick of her worn leather watch. The tunnel mouth’s metal grate whined shut behind her—she’d jammed it with a loose brick to block unauthorized entry, her military precision ensuring the brick fit snugly enough to resist prying hands. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair caught the glow of her torch; the beam cut through a haze of burnt sage and mildew that clung to the air like a second skin. She’d gotten the bone token (the Veil Market’s non-negotiable entry requirement) from the crime scene’s initial sweep—clutched in a dead man’s discarded wool glove by the tunnel entrance, its surface carved with a tiny raven sigil she’d yet to place. Two hours past the market’s usual post-full-moon evacuation, the station hummed with a faint, unidentifiable energy; she’d felt it prick at her neck the moment she stepped through the grate. She spotted the body first. It slumped against a splintered vendor’s stall stacked with dried mandrake roots, rolled sheets of sigil-etched parchment, and three vials of glowing blue liquid—banned alchemical substances she’d read about in Eva’s restricted archive reports. The man’s face was slack, his eyes staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling. No bullet holes marred his tailored wool coat. No knife wounds gaped at his throat. No signs of struggle twisted his fingers, save for the white-knuckled grip on the object clamped in his right hand. Her torch beam settled on that object. A small brass compass, its casing coated in a patina of verdigris that dulled its shine, its face etched with swirling protective sigils she’d glimpsed once in Eva’s research notes during a casual consultation six months prior. She’d dismissed the notes then, writing off the Veil Compass as a myth concocted by occult enthusiasts—now, it sat heavy in her mind, a piece of evidence that defied every logical explanation she’d honed over 18 years of decorated Metropolitan Police service. A movement caught her eye. She snapped her torch to the left. Eva Kowalski crouched by the stall’s base, her curly red hair falling in tangles over her round glasses. She tucked a strand behind her left ear (her well-documented nervous habit) as she flipped through a leather-bound book from her worn leather satchel, the satchel’s frayed straps spilling loose pages of occult texts onto the cold tile. She’d arrived 20 minutes before Harlow, summoned by a frantic radio call Harlow had made after spotting the compass—her master’s degree in Ancient History from Oxford and access to the British Museum’s restricted archives made her the only occult researcher she could trust, even if she still bristled at the thought of leaning on supernatural explanations. Bone token’s missing from his pockets. Harlow’s fingers curled around her radio, perched on her belt. She’d already patted down the man’s coat pockets—empty, save for a crumpled train ticket dated the previous full moon, a pack of half-smoked cigarettes, and a folded receipt for mandrake roots from a market vendor she’d never heard of. You need one to get in. No exception. The market’s guards check every entry point. Eva’s voice carried a faint tremor as she pushed her glasses back up her nose, her freckled complexion pale under the torch’s glow. I’ve seen their logs—no one slips through without a token. Harlow stepped closer, her boots crunching a loose sheet of sigil parchment underfoot. She knelt beside the body, her knees cracking softly against the tile, and pried the compass from the man’s hand. Its weight was heavier than she expected, its casing cool to the touch. A faint scratch marred one of the swirling sigils on its face—she’d missed it in the initial glance, her focus fixed on the man’s unmarked throat. What’s this? She held the compass up to Eva’s face, her thumb brushing the scratch. Eva leaned in, her hair falling forward again—she tucked another strand behind her ear before gesturing at the scratch with a page from her book. That’s a protective sigil, crafted by a Shade artisan. They’re impossible to scratch accidentally—Shade metalwork is forged to resist blades and blunt force. Harlow’s mind raced. She’d lost her partner, DS Morris, three years prior to an unexplained incident that left his body unmarked, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling just like this man’s. She’d dismissed the supernatural whispers back then, writing off the death as a hidden poison she’d failed to detect. Now, the pieces tugged at the edges of her deduction, a quiet urgency building in her chest. The compass’s needle. It’s spinning. She held the compass up to her torch, watching the tiny black needle whirl in circles, never settling on a direction. Eva nodded, flipping to a page marked with a pressed four-leaf clover. It’s supposed to point to the nearest supernatural rift or portal—Shade artisans craft them to lead users to hidden energy pockets. Spinning means it’s been tampered with, the energy disrupted. Harlow stood, her boots thudding against the tile as she paced the stall’s perimeter. The stall’s wood had warped with age, its edges swollen from the station’s damp air. A small gap showed between the back panel and the frame, so faint she’d missed it in her initial sweep—she’d focused on the body and the compass, relying on her usual criminal investigation tactics instead of accounting for the market’s supernatural rules. He was a vendor here. He’d have access to hidden storage. She stopped in front of the back panel, her torch beam highlighting the gap. The market’s vendors hide their most valuable goods from casual thieves—enchanted tools, restricted information, even maps of hidden rifts. Eva pushed herself to her feet, her satchel slipping off one shoulder as she closed her book. She’d observed the vendors during a research trip six months prior, hiding their treasures in wall niches and floor panels to avoid the market’s enforcers. Harlow pried the back panel open with her torch’s edge, her fingers gripping the metal firmly as she levered the wood away from the frame. A small wooden box fell out, its lid carved with the same raven sigil as the bone token from the glove. She caught it before it hit the tile, her sharp jaw tightening at the sound of a paper rustling inside. She flipped the box’s lid. Inside, she found a crumpled note and a second bone token, its surface polished to a faint shine. The note’s ink was faded, its handwriting scrawled in a hurry: Rift at King’s Cross, platform 13, midnight. The date at the bottom matched the train ticket in the man’s pocket—three nights prior, the night of the last full moon. Harlow’s breath caught. She’d checked the stall’s front and sides, running her hands over every inch of wood for hidden compartments, but she’d missed the warped back panel because she’d dismissed the market’s supernatural storage habits as a fantasy. The man hadn’t been a random victim—he’d been a whistleblower, hiding the rift’s location to warn someone before his attacker silenced him. You didn’t check the back. Eva’s voice was soft, her gaze fixed on the note as she stepped closer. The tamperer wouldn’t want anyone to find the rift—they’d scratch the compass to cause a backlash, knowing it would kill him without leaving a trace. Backlash? Harlow’s fingers tightened around the compass, the scratch digging into her thumb. She’d never believed in supernatural consequences, but the man’s unmarked body matched her partner’s death so closely she couldn’t ignore it. The Shade artisan’s compasses have a built-in defense—tamper with a protective sigil, and the compass’s energy rebounds, draining the user’s life force in seconds. No bullet holes, no knife wounds, just a slack face and a staring gaze. Eva explained, her voice steadying as she gestured at the body. I’ve read about it in the restricted archives—three other cases in the last decade, all linked to the Veil Market. Harlow flipped her wrist to check her worn leather watch—midnight was in two hours. She’d need to mobilize her unit to King’s Cross platform 13, a disused platform she’d investigated once after a report of strange lights. The rift’s energy could spread to the surface if left unchecked, putting hundreds of commuters at risk. He was trying to warn someone. The note, the second bone token—he hid them so the tamperer couldn’t find them. Harlow said, slipping the note and token into her coat pocket. She’d missed the warning because she’d refused to acknowledge the market’s supernatural rules, but now she saw the pattern: her partner’s death, this man’s death, all linked to tampered Shade tools and hidden rifts. Eva tucked another strand of hair behind her ear, her glasses slipping down her nose as she pushed them back with a steady hand—no more nervous trembling, a sign she’d gained confidence in her deduction. The tamperer’s still nearby, she said, her gaze drifting to the tunnel mouth. They’d have stayed to make sure no one found the note. Harlow flicked her radio on, pressing the talk button with a firm finger. Unit 7, converge on King’s Cross platform 13. Standby for further instructions. No unauthorized personnel within 50 yards of the platform. She snapped the radio off, her sharp jaw tightening as she looked at Eva. I didn’t believe you before—about the supernatural, about the compasses, about the rifts. The sigils don’t lie. They’re carved to hold energy, to guide or protect. Eva’s freckled complexion lit up with a faint smile, her curly red hair catching the torch’s glow. You just had to look past the obvious. Harlow stepped toward the tunnel mouth, her torch held high. She’d need to retrieve the first bone token from the wool glove by the entrance—she’d need it to exit the station without triggering the market’s hidden defenses, which Eva had warned could trap intruders in a supernatural loop for days. She’d missed the warped back panel, the hidden note, and the pattern linking her partner’s death to this case because she’d clung to her usual logical tactics. Now, with the compass in her hand and the note in her pocket, she finally saw what others had missed: the supernatural wasn’t a myth. It was a weapon, and someone was using it to kill.