Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB3VAQXVXB8CRB55R5H359

The air tasted of wet concrete and something older, something like dust motes and forgotten prayers. Harlow Quinn adjusted the collar of her trench coat, the fabric doing little against the chill that clung to the abandoned Tube station. Camden Town North, the sign above the blocked-off emergency exit proclaimed, though no tube rattled through these tunnels anymore. This was the Veil Market’s current location, and it smelled like trouble even before the call came in. “Right mess, eh?” DS Davies said, gesturing with a gloved hand. Davies was good people, solid, but lacked the necessary cynicism for this line of work. He saw things at face value. A weakness, sometimes. The ‘mess’ was a man sprawled on the damp platform, a crimson bloom blossoming on the grey tiling. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, dressed in the sort of flamboyant clothes you saw on the fringes of Camden High Street—velvet jacket, too many rings. A tourist, probably, drawn in by whispers of the market. Harlow knelt, her knees protesting the cold, and began the slow, methodical process of assessment. Usual procedure. Davies busied himself with the uniformed officers, barking questions, filling out forms. She needed quiet, and she needed to see. The victim’s eyes were wide, fixed on the vaulted ceiling. No obvious sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds. Just the single, precise puncture wound to the chest. It wasn’t a knife. Too clean, too small. “Looks like a stabbing,” Davies commented, joining her. Harlow didn’t bother looking up. “Looks like someone wanted it to look like a stabbing.” “What do you mean?” “Look at the angle, Davies. The trajectory. A downward thrust, yes, but…surgical. Almost bloodless, initially. And see the lack of disturbance? No scuffle, no dropped belongings. He didn’t even manage a shout, I’d wager.” Davies frowned. “So, professional?” “Unlikely. Professionals don’t pick picturesque locations. They don’t leave a velvet jacket and a silver skull ring as calling cards.” She glanced around the platform, taking in the market’s makeshift stalls. Silk scarves shimmered under flickering gas lamps. Jars filled with murky liquids sat beside stacks of bone carvings. The usual assortment of the bizarre and the illicit. The vendors, a motley crew of shadowed faces and knowing eyes, were unusually subdued. They were watching, but not offering. “The Market people haven’t touched a thing,” Davies observed. "They’re all claiming they didn't see anything." “They never do.” Harlow ran a gloved hand along the victim’s jacket. “Anything missing?” "Wallet’s still there. Phone’s present.” Davies consulted his notepad. "Some cash. Doesn't seem like a robbery." Harlow focused on the wound again. It was small, almost insignificant, yet she knew, instinctively, that it wasn't made by anything conventional. Something…finer. Something that bypassed the usual defenses. “Get a tox screen done, Davies. And I want a full sweep of this platform. Every inch. I want to know if there’s anything out of place. Anything at all.” “You think it was one of them?” Davies gestured towards the market stalls. “Some sort of…supernatural hit?” Harlow suppressed a sigh. “I think we need to consider all possibilities, Sergeant.” She stood and walked towards a stall draped in dark velvet. A woman with eyes like polished obsidian sat behind it, sorting through a collection of dried herbs. “Seraphina,” Harlow said, her voice flat and devoid of pleasantries. Seraphina knew her. Most of them did. The woman didn’t look up. “Detective Quinn. A shame about the young man.” “Did you see anything?” Seraphina finally raised her gaze, her expression unreadable. “The Market sees everything. But the Market doesn't always speak.” “Try me.” “He was asking about…artifacts. Seeking something specific. A way to enhance his perception, he said. To ‘see beyond the veil.’” Harlow's worn leather watch glinted as she checked the time. Just seven hours until the Market relocated. They never stayed in one place long. “Did he find what he was looking for?” Seraphina offered a small, cryptic smile. “Perhaps. Curiosity is a dangerous pursuit, Detective.” Harlow moved further into the Market, her military precision in stark contrast to the chaotic energy around her. She passed a stall selling bottled shadows, another offering teeth purportedly from mythical beasts. She stopped at a stall run by a man known only as Silas, a purveyor of forgotten lore and strange instruments. “Silas,” she greeted him. “Detective.” He didn’t bother with a pleasantry either. Silas was a practical man. "Interesting evening." “I'm looking for information. A recent arrival. Young man, flamboyant attire. Asking about supernatural enhancements.” Silas’s eyes, magnified by thick lenses, narrowed. “Ah, yes. The seeker. He was admiring my Veil Compass.” Harlow’s attention sharpened. A Veil Compass. She’d only encountered a handful in her eighteen years on the force. They were expensive, rare, and only sold to those who truly understood their purpose. A compass tuned to supernatural energy; the needle pointed towards rifts and portals. “Did he purchase it?” Silas shook his head. “He lacked the…resonance. The Compass rejects those who are not aligned. But he was persistent. He asked about ways to bypass the restriction. About rituals to open oneself to the unseen.” That was the key. “Did you tell him?” Silas offered a shrug. “I provide information. I do not judge its use.” Harlow’s gaze swept over the compasses on display. Small brass casings, faces etched with protective sigils. Patina of verdigris giving them an ancient look. She noticed one was missing from its velvet stand. “Show me your inventory log, Silas.” He reluctantly produced a leather-bound book, the pages filled with meticulous handwriting. Harlow scanned the entries, her finger tracing the rows. The missing compass was marked as “Reserved – Potential Buyer." Beneath it, a single name, scrawled in a different hand: “A. Thorne.” “Who is A. Thorne?” Silas hesitated. “A…collector. Discreet. Pays well. I didn't ask too many questions.” Harlo felt a knot tighten in her stomach. A collector. That didn't fit. This felt…targeted, not random. This wasn't some tourist stumbling into the wrong crowd. The puncture wound, the surgical precision, the knowledge of the Veil – it all pointed to a calculated act. “Davies,” she called out, her voice cutting through the murmur of the market. “I want a full background check on anyone named A. Thorne connected to the supernatural community. And I want you to pull the security footage from every entrance and exit to this station for the past twenty-four hours. Let’s see who was meeting with our ‘seeker.’” Davies, finally seeming to grasp the shift in her assessment, nodded and hurried off. Harlow returned to the victim, kneeling once more beside the body. She examined the wound again, a new detail catching her eye. A faint, almost imperceptible residue around the puncture. A shimmering, iridescent dust. She directed a uniformed officer to collect a sample. “Send it to forensics. Tell them to look for anything…unusual. Anything that doesn't belong.” As she stood, she noticed Eva Kowalski, her friend from the British Museum, pushing her way through the crowd, her curly red hair a beacon in the gloom. Eva was clutching her worn leather satchel, her round glasses perched on her nose. She looked flustered, her nervous habit of tucking hair behind her left ear on full display. “Harlow?” Eva called out, spotting her. “I saw the news. What happened?” “Murder,” Harlow said, her tone grim. “And I think it’s more complicated than it appears.” Eva’s eyes widened. “Complicated how?” “I think,” Harlow said, her gaze sweeping over the shrouded stalls and watchful faces of the Veil Market, “we’re dealing with someone who knows more about the unseen world than they let on.” And a creeping feeling told her that this was only the beginning. This wasn't just a murder. It was a message. And she had a feeling it was meant for her.