Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB0MDVX30X2J4ABRXDR552

Detective Harlow Quinn descended the rusted ladder into the abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, her worn leather watch ticking against her wrist. Flashlights from the forensics team sliced through the gloom, catching motes of dust that swirled like ghosts. The air reeked of damp concrete and something sharper—ozone, like a storm trapped underground. Uniforms cordoned off the platform with yellow tape that fluttered in the draft from blocked tunnels. Bodies milled, their boots scraping tiles cracked by decades of neglect. Quinn ducked under the tape, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair brushing the low beam overhead. She scanned the scene: stalls jury-rigged from scrap metal and canvas, remnants of a market that shouldn't exist. Jars shattered on the ground spilled iridescent powders. A severed rope dangled from a hook, swaying. Eva Kowalski crouched near the center, her curly red hair spilling over round glasses as she prodded a brass casing with a gloved finger. Her worn leather satchel slumped beside her, books peeking from the flap. Freckles dotted her cheeks under the harsh light. Quinn's boots crunched glass. "Kowalski. You beat me here." Eva tucked a curl behind her left ear, not looking up. "Called in five minutes after the first responder. Museum flagged the location—restricted access, even for us." Quinn knelt beside the body sprawled across blood-smeared tiles. Male, mid-forties, throat torn open in jagged strips. No weapon nearby. Blood pooled in a perfect circle, edges crisp, as if drawn with a brush. His fist clenched a small brass compass, verdigris patina flaking onto his knuckles. The needle spun wild, sigils etched on the face glowing faint blue. "Veil Compass," Eva murmured, peering closer. "Points to rifts. Black market special from here—The Veil Market. Killer grabbed it mid-fight." Quinn traced the body's drag marks with her eyes. They led from a collapsed stall, smeared straight, no scuffs or hesitation. "Drag him ten feet, throat ripped, and he holds tight? No defensive wounds on his hands." Eva adjusted her glasses. "Adrenaline. Or the thief panicked. Compass fetches thousands—enchanted, attuned to supernatural bleed-through." Quinn stood, military precision in her stance. She paced the perimeter, flashlight beam raking shelves of withered herbs and vials labeled in runes. A bone token lay crushed underfoot, entry chit for this hole. "Panic leaves mess. This? Too neat. Blood circle matches the platform's old drain grate, pressure sealed it." Eva rose, brushing dust from her knees. "Coincidence. Look at the wounds—claw marks, but human-sized. Gang hit. Veil Market crews feud over artifacts like this." Quinn crouched again, prying the compass free. Needle jerked toward the east tunnel, then snapped back. Sigils pulsed warmer under her thumb. "Claws don't sever trachea clean. Examine the edges." Eva leaned in, her breath fogging the glass. "Jagged. Like animal attack." "Microscopic." Quinn held it to her light. "Teeth marks, serrated, filed maybe. But pressure even—no spray, no spatter on the walls. Killer knelt, precise." Uniform nearby shifted, radio crackling. "Detective, CSIs say time of death 0200 hours. Market cleared out post-full moon shift." Quinn ignored him, eyes on the body's eyes—milky, fixed wide, pupils blown. No petechiae, no burst vessels from strangulation. "Pupils dilated max. Poison? Tox won't show yet." Eva snorted, slinging her satchel higher. "Not poison. Rift exposure. Compass overloaded him—supernatural feedback. Heart stops, body drops." Quinn's jaw tightened, sharp line cutting shadow. She recalled DS Morris, vanished three years back in a warehouse haze she couldn't explain. Lights flickered then, too. "Feedback doesn't slash throats. Check the stall collapse." They moved to the debris: canvas shredded, poles bent inward. Quinn lifted a flap, revealing claw gouges deep in metal—four-pronged, spaced for a large hand. "Bear? Underground?" Eva traced one. "Not bear. Shade work—market legend. Shadow folk peddle these compasses. Thief botched a deal, Shade retaliated." Quinn dropped the flap. "Shades don't bleed vics dry. Blood volume here—half gone. No pooling overflow." Eva blinked, tucking hair again. "Evaporated? Rifts suck ambient magic, sometimes fluids." "Bollocks." Quinn swept her beam across the platform. Footprints in dust—human boots, size ten, leading to the body, then vanishing mid-stride. "Prints stop cold. No scuff, no jump." Eva followed the beam. "Dust settled fast. Draft cleared 'em." Quinn knelt at the vanish point, fingers brushing smooth tile. "Settled uniform. Feel this—warm patch, radiating." Eva touched it, yanked back. "Residual energy. Rift micro-tear. Opened, killer stepped through, closed." Quinn's watch ticked louder in the silence. She stood, circling back to the body. His pockets yielded nothing—no wallet, no phone. But lint clung inside, metallic threads woven fine. "Uniform fibers. Custodial?" Eva shook her head. "Market uniform. Bone token confirms vendor." Quinn pocketed the lint sample. "Vendor kills his own stock? Compass in fist points outward—defensive grab from attacker." She strode to the east tunnel mouth, where the needle tugged hardest. Barricades blocked it, fresh welds glowing dull red. "Who sealed this?" "Forensics crew," a CSI called from across the platform. "Hazardous—structural collapse imminent." Quinn tested the bar, unyielding. "Imminent how? Welds hot, done tonight." Eva joined her. "Rift stabilized it. Without, tunnel caves." Quinn's brown eyes narrowed. She rapped the metal—hollow echo. "Space beyond. Air flow fresh." A uniform approached, notepad out. "Detective Quinn, prelims: vic ID'd as Marcus Hale, small-time fence. No priors here, but linked to artifact rings." Quinn spun. "Linked how?" "Buyer logs from British Museum—purchased legit, resold underground." Eva stiffened. "Museum? That's my turf. Hale approached me last week, wanted restricted texts on rifts." Quinn's gaze pinned her. "You mention this now?" Eva shrugged. "Irrelevant. He spooked easy, backed off." Quinn filed it, turned back to the body. Blood circle gleamed under fresh light, edges feathering inward. "Circle contracts. Draws in, not spreads." Eva peered. "Magic. Containment sigil." Quinn fetched a vial from her kit, swabbed the edge. Residue flaked silver. "Alchemical binder. Matches powders from the stalls." CSI nearby bagged a jar. "All inert now. Burned out." Quinn's mind clicked. She grabbed the compass again, held it over the circle. Needle locked perpendicular, sigils flared brighter. "Compass reacts here. Vic triggered it—testing a rift?" Eva nodded. "Standard scam. Fake compass, lure buyers." "But real one kills." Quinn traced the body's arm—tattoo peeked from cuff, coiled serpent biting its tail. Ouroboros. "Symbol for cycles. Eternity." Eva leaned. "Occult staple. Nothing special." Quinn rolled the sleeve higher. Tattoo fresh, skin puckered. Ink swirled unnatural, veins black under surface. "Injected. Not ink." Eva's eyes widened behind glasses. "Elixir. Rift venom—binds to supernatural." Quinn stood, compass in hand. "Vic wasn't fence. Bait. Someone lured a buyer here, staged the rip." Uniform radioed again. "Sarge says wrap it, dawn soon." Quinn waved him off. She paced to the vanished prints, knelt, sniffed. Ozone sharp, metallic. Her partner's case—warehouse smelled same. "Micro-tear opened here. Killer stepped from rift, not tunnel." Eva crouched beside. "Proves Shade theory." Quinn shook her head. "Shades don't file teeth human-size. Prints match boots—size ten, market vendor treads." She bolted to the stalls, rifled debris. Found a matching boot heel snapped off, wedged under canvas. "Vendor's. Faked the drag, planted compass." Eva followed. "Why?" Quinn held up the heel. "Circle's bait. Draws rift energy, collects it. Vic drinks elixir, becomes conduit. Killer harvests the blood—pure magic extract." Eva paled. "Black market gold. But throat?" Quinn pointed to the gouges. "Self-inflicted post-harvest. Panic, compass feedback fries him." CSI called. "Detective, blood tox prelim—adrenalin spike, unknown compound." Quinn pocketed the heel. "Compound's elixir. Vendor seals tunnel to trap residue, welds fresh to sell site later." Eva tugged her ear curl. "You built this from prints?" Quinn faced her. "Prints vanish because killer dragged body back over them. Circle warms from residual heat—body heat, not rift. Blood half-gone? Siphoned into vials, stalls hid the pump." A low rumble shook the platform. Tiles gritted underfoot. Quinn steadied against a pole. Eva glanced up. "Tunnel?" Quinn's beam caught movement in shadows—a flicker, gone. Compass needle whipped north. "Not tunnel. Someone watching." Uniforms drew weapons. "Clear the scene!" Quinn gripped the compass tighter. Sigils burned her palm. She stepped toward the flicker, boots silent now. Eva whispered. "Harlow, evidence says—" Quinn cut her off, voice low. "Evidence says vendor's alive, selling the haul tomorrow's market shift." The rumble grew. Dust sifted from ceiling. Quinn advanced, flashlight piercing black. A glint—another bone token, dropped fresh. Eva grabbed her arm. "Wait. That's—" Quinn shook free, compass pulling her deeper.