Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TYHJJ5R5JT8KXHW0S6F2C

The air in the abandoned Camden Tube station tasted of rust, damp earth, and something else—ozone, maybe, or the sharp tang of a spent firework. Detective Harlow Quinn stood at the edge of the platform, her boots planted on the grimy tiles with military precision. Her sharp jaw was set. The call had been cryptic: a body, an unusual location, signs of a struggle. They hadn’t mentioned the market. But she knew. The scattered remnants were telltale. A stall’s canvas awning lay collapsed like a wounded bird. Shattered glass vials leaked iridescent fluids that pooled and shimmered under the beam of her torch. A single, carved bone token, the entry requirement, lay discarded near the tracks. The Veil Market had been here, and now it was gone, having moved on with the full moon. It had left a corpse behind. The body was a man, late twenties, sprawled near what had probably been an alchemist’s booth. He wore expensive but now-torn street clothes. No visible wallet. Uniformed officers had cordoned off a wide area, their lights casting long, nervous shadows up the curved tunnel walls. “Quinn.” She didn’t turn at the voice. She was studying the placement of the victim’s left hand, fingers curled as if clutching something that was no longer there. The skin around the nails was stained a peculiar, mossy green. “Kowalski. They let research assistants onto active crime scenes now?” Eva Kowalski stepped into the light, her round glasses reflecting the torch beam. She hugged her worn leather satchel to her chest, a nervous gesture. Her freckled complexion looked pale in the artificial light. “I was in the archives when the call came in. They needed a consult. On the… residuals.” She gestured vaguely at the shimmering pools. Quinn finally glanced at her. The girl was Aurora’s friend. That connection alone put a knot in Quinn’s gut. Aurora and her little clique were a puzzle she was determined to solve, a lead that felt connected to the hollow, unexplained ache of Morris’s death. Eva was a piece of that puzzle, now standing awkwardly in the middle of a crime scene. “Residuals,” Quinn repeated flatly. “So, this is your area of expertise? Occult flea markets?” Eva flinched, tucking a curl of red hair behind her left ear. “The Veil Market is a neutral exchange. Mostly. It’s not inherently criminal.” “A man is dead, Miss Kowalski. That’s inherently criminal.” Quinn turned back to the body, crouching down. Her worn leather watch strap tightened against her wrist. “Cause of death isn’t obvious. No gunshot wounds, no major lacerations. Maybe poison. Maybe something he bought here.” She pointed at the green stain on the fingers. “You recognize that?” Eva moved closer, crouching beside her with a rustle from her satchel. She didn’t get too close to the body. “It could be residue from Verdigris Elixir. It’s an unstable alchemical concentrate. Toxic if ingested or if it enters the bloodstream through a cut.” “An accident, then?” Quinn probed, watching Eva’s face. “He bought something dangerous, handled it wrong, died. The vendors packed up and ran to avoid liability. Case closed.” “It… could be,” Eva said, but her voice lacked conviction. She was looking past the body, at the pattern of the shattered glass. “It’s just… the stall. If it was an alchemical accident, the breakage would be more concentrated around the body. This is scattered. As if things were knocked over in a fight.” Quinn hid a sliver of satisfaction. The girl was observant. “Go on.” “And the token.” Eva pointed to the bone disc near the tracks. “You need one to get in. They’re not cheap. You don’t just drop it. Unless you’re running, or being chased.” “Or it was taken from you and tossed aside,” Quinn finished. She stood, her knees popping. She walked a slow circuit around the body, her torch beam sweeping the ground. The uniformed officers had trampled much, but near a rusted service ladder, something caught the light. A small, circular gleam. She moved to it, careful not to step on the evidence corridor. It was a compass. A small brass compass, its casing mottled with a patina of verdigris. She didn’t touch it. The face was etched with intricate, swirling sigils that made her eyes ache if she looked too long. “Don’t touch that!” Eva’s voice was sharp, panicked. She hurried over. “I wasn’t going to,” Quinn said, her tone cool. “What is it?” “It’s a Veil Compass. It points to supernatural rifts. They’re… delicate. And valuable. Crafted by Shade artisans.” Eva crouched, peering at it. “This shouldn’t be here. If this was a robbery, they’d have taken this. It’s worth more than cash.” Quinn’s mind raced, piecing the new fragment into the puzzle. “So, not a simple robbery. And if it wasn’t an accident…” She looked from the compass to the green-stained hand of the victim, then to the scattered stall debris. “He had the compass. He was in a struggle. The stall gets knocked over. He’s contaminated with the toxin during the fight. He dies. The assailant flees, but doesn’t take the compass. Why?” “Because they were after something specific,” Eva murmured, following Quinn’s gaze. “Something the compass was leading him to. Or something he knew. The compass was just a tool.” Quinn felt the old, familiar click in her mind, the one that used to happen when Morris was alive and they’d bounce theories off each other. The click of things aligning, of the wrongness resolving into a new shape. “The stain is only on his left hand. His dominant hand?” Eva checked. “Watch is on the right wrist. So, probably left-handed.” “So he’s holding the compass in his right hand,” Quinn theorized, moving her own hands as if acting it out. “Left hand comes up to defend himself, grabs at the assailant or the assailant’s weapon. Gets contaminated. Drops the compass here in the struggle. The assailant doesn’t care about the compass. They want him quiet. They get what they want and melt into the market crowd just before the move. The market packs up and vanishes, erasing the trail.” It was clean. Too clean. It explained the evidence, but it felt like a performance. A show meant to point toward a certain narrative. “What’s the flaw, Kowalski?” Quinn asked abruptly. “You’re thinking it. I can see you chewing on it.” Eva startled, then pushed her glasses up her nose. “The dose. Verdigris Elixir is fast. If he was contaminated in a struggle here, he’d have collapsed here. But look at his clothing. The knees of his trousers are clean. No drag marks on this filth. If he fell, he’d have gotten filthy. He’s… relatively clean. He died somewhere else, and was placed here.” Quinn’s blood went still. *Placed here.* The scene was staged. The scattered stall, the dropped token—all theater. A chill that had nothing to do with the underground air crept up her spine. This wasn’t a market accident or a botched robbery. This was a message. A body left in the one place certain people—people like Eva, like Aurora—would know to look. She looked at Eva, who was staring at the body with dawning horror, likely reaching the same conclusion. “He was killed elsewhere, brought here to send a message about the market, or about someone who uses it,” Quinn said, her voice low. “The question is, who was the message for? And what did this man know that required him to be the stationary?” She looked at the compass again, its etched face seeming to pulse in the gloom. It pointed down the dark tunnel, its needle unwavering. Not north. It was pointing toward the abandoned tracks, into the deeper black. Toward a rift. “And why leave the compass? That’s not part of the staging. That’s a mistake. Or…” “Or it’s the real message,” Eva finished, her voice barely a whisper. “The body is the warning. The compass is the trail.” Quinn met her green eyes. For a moment, the ghost of Morris was between them, another death with unexplained, supernatural origins. This was his territory. This wrongness. “You know what this compass points to, don’t you?” Eva’s hand went to the strap of her satchel, white-knuckled. She gave a tiny, fearful nod. “Then you’re coming with me,” Quinn said, not asking. She took an evidence bag from her coat and, using a pen, carefully maneuvered the brass compass inside without touching it. The sigils seemed to writhe under the plastic. “This is no longer just a consult. This is my investigation. And you, Miss Kowalski, are now a material witness.” She saw the protest form on Eva’s lips and die. The girl knew. The neat, staged crime scene had just unraveled, and in its place was something far darker and more personal. Quinn secured the bag, the weight of the compass inside feeling heavier than it should. The wrongness had a shape now, and it was leading them both down into the dark.