Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V126FXCJS185CET2AJY3R

The stale, damp air of the abandoned Camden Town Tube station clung to the back of Detective Harlow Quinn’s throat. Her footsteps echoed off the curved, grime-streaked tiles as she descended the final flight of stairs, the beam from her torch cutting a swath through the oppressive dark. The call had been bizarre, even for the Met’s specialist unit. A body, found in a place that wasn’t supposed to exist. The platform stretched before her, but it wasn’t empty. Makeshift stalls fashioned from rusted scaffolding poles and moth-eaten velvet drapes lined the walls, their counters littered with objects that made her skin prickle. Glass jars held luminescent fungi. Tarnished silver instruments gleamed under the harsh glare of police work lights that had been hauled down. A stack of leather-bound books pulsed with a faint, internal heat. This was the Veil Market. The briefing had been thin, whispers from informants about a black market that moved on the full moon. Access required a token, a small carved bone. The victim had one clutched in his hand. The scene was a jarring collision of the procedural and the impossible. Uniforms had cordoned off a stall near the end of the platform with their standard blue and white tape. The forensic team in their white suits moved with a subdued urgency, their usual banter absent. In the centre of it all, a man in a fine wool overcoat lay sprawled on the cracked concrete, his sightless eyes reflecting the work lights. A single, precise wound punctured his chest. Harlow’s sharp jaw tightened. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, the sound loud in the hushed space. “Report.” Sergeant Miller, a man built like a wardrobe, met her by the tape. His face was pale under the lights. “Victim is Alistair Finch, fifty-eight. Antiquities dealer with a boutique in Mayfair. Wallet’s untouched, Rolex still on his wrist. No signs of a struggle. Cause of death appears to be a stab wound to the heart. Weapon’s missing.” “Appears to be?” Miller shifted his weight. “The wound… it’s clean. Too clean. Almost surgical. But there’s no blood spatter. Just… a damp patch on his shirt. And the temperature here is wrong. My breath isn’t fogging.” Harlow glanced at her own exhalation. Nothing. The air was cold, but it held no moisture. She crouched by the body, her movements economical, born of military precision. The wound was a perfect, dark circle in the fine cotton of Finch’s shirt. The edges were not torn or ragged; they looked seared, cauterized. No blood had pooled beneath him. She checked his hands. Clean nails, no defensive wounds. In his right hand, the bone token—a yellowed knucklebone etched with tiny, spiralling symbols. “He was killed here?” “That’s the assumption, ma’am. He was discovered by the market’s… custodian, for lack of a better word, about two hours ago. We’ve secured the area as best we can. No one saw anything. Or so they claim.” Harlow’s eyes swept the stall behind the body. It was ransacked. Empty velvet trays were scattered, a locked glass case stood open and vacant. A small, hand-written placard lay facedown on the counter. She picked it up with a gloved finger. ‘*Veil Compass – attuned. One careful owner.*’ “Something was taken from this stall. A compass.” “We’ve got a description from the custodian. A small brass compass, green with age, with markings on the face. The stall belonged to a vendor who hasn’t been seen since last night.” “So we have a theft and a murder. Motive?” “Robbery gone wrong? Finch came to buy the compass, argued over price, got stabbed. Thief panicked, took the item and ran.” Harlow stood, her knees popping. She adjusted the worn leather strap of her watch on her left wrist. “A robbery gone wrong with a wound like that? No struggle, no noise in a crowded market? And why leave the wallet and the watch? That Rolex is worth twenty thousand pounds.” She turned, her gaze critical. “Where’s the consultant from the Museum?” “Over there, ma’am. She’s been… examining the artefacts.” Harlow followed his nod. A young woman with a riot of curly red hair was standing by a neighbouring stall, her round glasses reflecting the glow of a peculiar crystal. She wore a worn leather satchel across her chest, and her freckled complexion looked ghostly under the artificial light. Eva Kowalski. Harlow approached. “Miss Kowalski.” Eva jumped, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear. “Detective Quinn. This place… it’s incredible.” “It’s a crime scene. Your report?” Eva took a steadying breath, her academic demeanour reasserting itself. “The items here are genuine. Truly enchanted. That jar contains distilled twilight. Those books are bound in what I believe to be gremlin hide. The energy signature is… profound.” She glanced back at the body. “But it’s all wrong for a simple theft.” “Explain.” “The Veil Compass. It’s a tool, not a treasure. It doesn’t point north. It points to the nearest supernatural rift or portal. It’s used by travellers between realms, or by people trying to avoid such places. It has significant practical value, but not on the open market. You can’t fence it at a pawn shop. Stealing it implies the thief has a very specific, immediate need.” “Or they were hired to steal it.” “Possibly. But why kill Finch? If he was the buyer, eliminating him makes sense only if the thief wanted no witnesses to the transaction. But again, in this place?” Eva gestured at the shadowy recesses of the station. “Witnesses are unlikely to come forward to the police. Murder here is a far greater risk, draws far more attention than a discreet theft.” Harlow walked back to the body, Eva following. She looked past the obvious, past the white suits and the tape and the glaring lights. She studied the ground around Finch. The concrete was dusty, but there were no scuff marks, no footprints aside from those of the first responders. She looked at the stall again. The ransacking was violent—trays flung, the case forced—but it was focused. Only one case was open. “Miller, the glass case. Was it locked?” “Yes, ma’am. Small key lock. Broken.” “Broken how?” “The hasp was snapped. Metal fatigue.” Harlow knelt, peering at the small brass hasp on the case door. The break was clean, the metal bright where it had sheared. She took a small evidence bag from her pocket and used a pair of tweezers to pick up a few minute, glittering fragments from the floor just inside the case. “What is that?” Eva asked, leaning closer. “Glass. From inside the case.” Harlow held the bag to the light. The fragments were not clear. They held a faint, smoky swirl. “The compass was displayed on a bed of something. Not velvet. Something else.” Eva’s green eyes widened behind her glasses. “A containment field. For something with a strong ambient energy signature. The compass must have been particularly powerful, or… unstable.” Harlow’s mind raced, connecting points. A surgical, bloodless wound. A missing specialised tool. A broken containment field. No struggle. She looked at Finch’s hand, the bone token. Then she looked at his face. His expression wasn’t one of shock or pain. It was blank, almost serene. “He wasn’t stabbed,” Harlow said, her voice low. Miller frowned. “The wound—” “Is an entry point, not a stab wound. Look at the edges. Cauterised. No blood. The weapon wasn’t a knife. It was something that punched through him and sealed the tissue instantly. A focused energy discharge. Or a projectile that moves so fast it heats the flesh.” Eva tucked her hair behind her ear again, a rapid gesture. “A kinetic pulse. Or a… a bolt of solidified shadow. There are artefacts that could do that. But they’re incredibly rare, museum pieces.” “And the compass points to rifts,” Harlow continued, piecing it together aloud. “Finch came to buy it. The thief came to steal it. They met. The thief had a weapon that kills cleanly and silently. They used it, took the compass, and staged the ransacking to look like a robbery. But they only broke the one case. They knew exactly what they wanted. They didn’t care about the other valuables.” “So it was a targeted acquisition,” Miller said. “More than that.” Harlow stood, her bearing rigid. “The thief didn’t just want any compass. They wanted *this* compass. Which means they need to find a rift, and soon. And they’re willing to kill for the tool to do it.” She looked at Eva. “What does someone do with a Veil Compass, immediately after obtaining it?” Eva’s face went pale. “They use it. They follow the needle. It would lead them to the nearest active supernatural portal.” Harlow turned to Miller, her voice slicing through the damp air. “Get a schematic of every service tunnel, sewer, and forgotten cellar within a half-mile radius. I want every anomaly, every report of strange sounds, cold spots, electrical failures from the last 48 hours. Our killer isn’t just hiding. They’re going somewhere. And we need to find that door before they walk through it.”