AI The air in the abandoned Camden station tasted of iron and ancient, stagnant rot. Harlow Quinn stepped over a rusted rail, her heavy soles crunching on a layer of soot and discarded ticket stubs. Above, the city hummed, a distant vibration filtered through thirty feet of London clay. Her maglite beam sliced through the gloom , illuminating a tiled wall where the white ceramics were yellowed like old teeth.
DC Miller leaned against a soot-stained pillar ten yards ahead, his torch beam bouncing rhythmically off the tracks. He looked up as Quinn approached, his face caught in the harsh glare.
"About time. Forensic boys are stuck in traffic at the Mornington Crescent junction."
Quinn didn't slow her pace. She scanned the ground, noting the way the dust had been disturbed . Not the messy footprints of a panicked struggle. These were clean, deliberate indentations.
"What do we have, Miller?"
"Male, fifties." Miller gestured toward a dark mass slumped near the edge of the platform. "Suit looks like it costs more than a year of my pension. No ID, no phone. Typical mugging gone wrong. Probably some kid took a swing, the guy hit his head on the tracks, and they cleared his pockets."
Quinn knelt by the body. Salt-and-pepper hair caught the silver flickers of light as she turned her head. She didn't touch the victim yet. She observed the angle of the limbs. The man’s legs were crossed at the ankles. His hands rested neatly on his lap.
"Muggers don't pose the bodies, Miller."
"Maybe he just fell that way." Miller shifted, his leather jacket creaking.
Quinn pointed her torch at the victim’s chest. The fabric of the charcoal blazer remained pristine . No signs of a scuffle. No dirt on the elbows.
"Look at his feet."
"He’s barefoot. So what? They took his shoes. Designer brogues sell for a few hundred on the second-hand market."
"Look closer at the skin."
Quinn leaned in. The skin on the man's feet wasn't just bare. It was blackened, the flesh shimmering with a dark, iridescent sheen that looked more like oil than a burn. She reached into her kit, pulled out a pair of silver tweezers, and nudged the man's jaw. It remained stiff, locked in a silent scream that didn't match his peaceful posture. She pried the lips apart. A small, jagged object sat on the tongue. She plucked it out and held it up to the light. It was a fragment of bone, carved into a rough circular shape with a hole drilled through the centre.
"Miller, does this look like a typical mugging to you?"
Miller squinted, his brow furrowing . "A tooth?"
"It's a bone token. I haven't seen one of these since the Morris case."
The mention of her old partner turned the air colder. Quinn stood, her sharp jaw set as she swept the beam around the station. This platform was sterile, vacuumed of all human debris, save for the body and the strange soot circles on the ceiling.
"Where did the tech go?"
"The cache? It’s back toward the service entrance. Laptops, tablets, some strange brass instruments. I left PC Henderson to guard it."
Quinn ignored him and walked toward the shadows of the platform edge. The darkness there seemed thicker, a physical barrier that swallowed her light. She noticed a faint shimmer in the air, like heat haze over a summer road, but the temperature was barely above freezing. A soft scuffle sounded from the decommissioned ticket booth. Quinn drew her service weapon, her movement fluid and silent.
"Police! Step into the light."
A woman emerged from the booth. She was small, bundled in an oversized wool coat that looked lived-in. Round glasses sat precariously on the bridge of her nose. She clutched a leather satchel to her chest, her knuckles white.
"I didn't do anything." The woman’s green eyes flitted from Quinn to the body on the platform. She tucked a wild strand of red hair behind her left ear.
Quinn lowered the weapon but didn't holster it. "Identify yourself. What are you doing in a restricted Tube station at three in the morning?"
"Eva. Eva Kowalski. I’m an archivist."
"The British Museum is a long walk from here, Miss Kowalski."
Eva’s gaze dropped to the bone token still gripped in Quinn's tweezers. Her expression shifted from fear to a sharp, analytical curiosity. "You shouldn't be holding that without protection. It’s still resonant."
Quinn stepped closer, her military bearing imposing against the girl's slight frame. "You know what this is?"
"It’s a bone token. Entry fee. For the Market." Eva’s fingers drummed against the worn leather of her bag.
"The Veil Market?" Quinn’s voice dropped. The rumors had been circulating in the back alleys for months—a place that didn't exist on any map.
"It moved tonight." Eva looked at the shadows. "It was supposed to be here. I was late. Something went wrong."
Quinn reached for the satchel. "Let's see what a British Museum researcher carries to an underground black market."
Eva pulled back, but Quinn was faster. She flipped the lid of the bag. Inside lay several heavy, leather-bound books and a small brass object. The casing was thick with green patina, the face etched with symbols that seemed to shift and writhe under the torchlight . The needle didn't point North; it spun in erratic circles.
"Give that back! You have no idea how delicate that is. It’s tuned to the rift."
Quinn didn't hand it back. She held the Veil Compass in her palm, feeling a faint thrumming through her glove. It felt like a heartbeat—slow, rhythmic , and utterly alien.
"Miller! Get over here."
"Who's the girl?" Miller trotted over, looking confused.
Quinn held the compass out. "Look at the needle."
"It’s broken. Probably dropped it."
"It’s not broken." Quinn walked toward the body. As she got closer, the needle’s spinning slowed. When she stood directly over the victim, the needle snapped into a fixed position, pointing directly at the man's throat.
"The cause of death wasn't a fall, Miller." Quinn used the tip of her torch to nudge the victim’s collar. Beneath the expensive silk , the skin was translucent. The veins weren't blue or red; they were a shimmering silver.
"He wasn't mugged. He was emptied. Someone used a rift to pull the energy right out of him. That’s why he’s posed like that. Rigor doesn't set in normally when the biological electricity is gone."
Eva watched from the side, her face pale. "The Shade artisan who made that compass... he told me the Market was becoming unstable. The boundaries are thinning."
Quinn turned to the girl, her brown eyes hard. "Why were you coming here, Eva? What were you looking for?"
Eva reached into her satchel and pulled out a small, tattered notebook. "The same thing you are, Detective. I’m looking for what happened to the people who disappeared three years ago. I’m looking for why the Metropolitan Police files on DS Morris are redacted."
Quinn felt a jolt of ice in her chest.
"Lying is a poor choice for someone caught at a murder scene with a prohibited artifact." Quinn stepped closer to Eva, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the yellowed tiles.
"I'm not lying. I think the Market is the reason he's gone. But you won't find the answers in a standard forensics kit. You need to know how to read the signs." Eva pointed to the soot on the ceiling. "Those aren't smoke marks. That’s residue from a forced closure. Someone shut the door to the Market in a hurry. They left him behind as a buoy."
Quinn looked at the body, then at the compass in her hand. The needle remained locked on the man’s throat. She reached down and unbuttoned the man’s shirt. Nestled in the hollow of his collarbone was a second bone token, this one glowing with a faint, sickly green light.
"Miller, call it in. Tell them we have a homicide with unusual environmental factors. And tell them to send a containment team, not a standard coroner."
"Ma'am? Containment? For a mugging?"
"It wasn't a mugging, Miller. It was a harvest."
Quinn turned back to Eva, pocketing the bone token. The archivist didn't move to run.
"You're going to keep that compass, aren't you?"
"It’s evidence in a murder investigation."
"It won't work for you. Not unless you know how to talk to the shadows."
Quinn adjusted the leather strap of her watch . "I've spent eighteen years talking to people who hide in the dark, Miss Kowalski. I imagine the shadows aren't much different."
She looked at the tracks, where the darkness seemed to breathe. The Camden station grew quiet, the hum of the city above feeling further away than ever. The needle on the Veil Compass began to twitch, no longer pointing at the body, but toward the tunnel that led deeper into the earth, toward the heart of the city's hidden veins. Quinn didn't wait for Miller's response. She stepped off the platform and onto the tracks, her torch beam cutting a path through the shimmering haze.
"Where are you going?" Miller shouted from the tiles.
Quinn didn't look back. "To find the rest of the currency."
The tunnel swallowed her light as she moved away from the crime scene. The air grew colder, the scent of ozone thickening until it stung her nostrils. She followed the twitching needle, her footsteps echoing in a rhythm that didn't quite match her own pace . Behind her, the rustle of paper and the soft clink of Eva Kowalski’s satchel followed her into the dark.
Quinn stopped in front of a heavy iron door marked with a fading Victorian crest. It hadn't been opened in decades, yet the dust on the floor was swept clean. She pressed her hand against the metal. It was vibrating .
"It's right behind here." Eva whispered, appearing at Quinn's shoulder. "The anchor point."
Quinn gripped the handle. She didn't think about the paperwork or the protocol. She thought about Morris and the way his eyes had looked in the hospital—clear, terrified, and seeing something she couldn't. She pulled the door open. A rush of air hit her, smelling of incense, old parchment, and something metallic. The space beyond wasn't a maintenance room. It was a cavernous hall, lit by hanging lanterns that flickered with blue flames. Stalls made of bleached wood and bone lined the walls, draped in silks that changed colour as the light hit them.
"Detective." Eva grabbed Quinn's sleeve. "Don't touch anything. In here, if you touch it, you've bought it. And they don't take Sterling."
Quinn looked down at the bone token in her pocket. She wasn't here to buy anything. She was here to close the case. She saw a man at a nearby stall, his back to them. He wore a uniform—a Metropolitan Police jacket, scorched and tattered at the edges.
"Morris?"
The figure turned. It wasn't Morris. The face was a hollow shell, the eyes replaced by smooth, polished obsidian. It held out a tray of shimmering glass vials, its head tilting with a mechanical jerk.
"Fresh memories." The figure croaked. "Two tokens for a decade. One for a year."
Quinn backed away, her boots hitting the stone floor with a sharp metallic ring. The market didn't just sell goods; it sold parts of people.
"We need to go. The gate is shifting. If we stay when it moves, we won't find the way back."
Quinn looked at the obsidian-eyed man in the police jacket. She saw the name tag. It wasn't Morris's. It was a name she didn't recognize, but the date on the jacket was from twenty years ago. She reached out and grabbed a handful of the man's collar, hauling him toward her.
"Where did you get this jacket?"
The figure didn't struggle. It leaned in, the black stones in its eye sockets reflecting her own distorted face. "The lost and found. Everything that falls through the cracks ends up on the stalls."
She released him, her breath coming in shallow hitches. She turned to Eva. "How do we find the person in charge? The one who ran the harvest on the man on the tracks."
Eva looked toward the far end of the hall, where a curtain of thick, black velvet hung from the ceiling. "The Overseer. But you don't want to talk to him. He doesn't trade in information. He trades in shadows."
"I have eighteen years of shadows. I think I can afford the price."
She started toward the curtain, the Veil Compass in her hand now glowing with a steady, pulsing light. The needle pointed straight ahead, no longer spinning. As she walked, the market vendors fell silent, their hooded heads turning as she passed. She felt their hunger, a cold, predatory interest that made the hair on her neck stand up. She reached the velvet curtain and pulled it aside.
The room beyond was small, filled with the hum of a dozen clicking clocks. A man sat at a desk made of dark mahogany, his fingers dancing over a ledger. He didn't look up as she entered.
"Detective Quinn. I’ve been expecting you since three years ago. You’re late for the auction."
Quinn levelled her gaze at him. "The auction is over. I’m here for my partner."
The man looked up. His eyes were perfectly normal—a clear, piercing blue—but his reflection in the glass of the desk showed something entirely different. "Your partner isn't here, Harlow. He’s the one who sold the bone tokens you’re carrying."
Quinn froze. The bone token in her pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric.
"He didn't die for a case. He died to settle a debt. And now, I believe you’ve brought me the interest." He pointed to the compass in her hand. "That belongs to me. And the girl behind you belongs to the British Museum. You, however, are an unlisted asset."
Quinn lunged forward, her hand reaching for the ledger, but her fingers passed through the desk as if it were smoke. The room blurred, the ticking of the clocks accelerating until it became a deafening roar.
The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Eva Kowalski standing in the doorway, her round glasses reflecting the blue flames of the market, her hand reaching into her satchel for a book she hadn't shown Quinn—a book bound in the same charcoal silk as the victim’s blazer. Quinn felt the floor drop away. The smell of copper and coal returned, but it was accompanied by the sound of a train—a train that shouldn't be running on an abandoned line. The light of her maglite died, leaving her in a silence so profound she could hear her own heart slowing down to match the pulse of the compass.
She wasn't in the station anymore. She wasn't in the market. She was in the crack between.
And the needle on the compass had finally stopped moving. It pointed at her own chest. Quinn reached into her pocket and pulled out the bone token. It was no longer bone. It was silver, and etched into the surface was her own name.
"Harlow." A voice whispered from the dark. "You shouldn't have followed the breadcrumbs."
It was Morris. But he wasn't wearing a police jacket. He was weeping a thick, silver liquid that glowed in the dark.
"I didn't follow the breadcrumbs. I followed the evidence." Quinn gripped her service weapon. She reached out and turned the dial on the brass casing, reversing the sigils just as the girl had mentioned. The needle spun clockwise, then snapped.
The darkness shattered . Quinn blinked. The harsh glare of a forensic floodlight hit her eyes.
"Ma'am? You okay?" Miller stood over her. She was back on the platform. The body of the man in the charcoal suit was still there, but he was no longer posed. He was a messy heap of limbs. "You just stood there for a minute. Staring at the wall. I thought you’d seen a ghost."
Quinn looked at her hand. The Veil Compass was gone . In its place was a standard -issue evidence bag containing a piece of jagged bone. She checked her pocket. The bone token was gone .
"Where’s the girl?"
"The archivist? She left five minutes ago. Said she’d given her statement to PC Henderson ."
Quinn looked toward the ticket booth. It was empty. The soot on the ceiling was just soot—black, greasy, and entirely mundane. She walked over to the victim and pulled back his collar. The skin was bruised and purple. A standard strangulation.
"ID came through on the portable scanner. Small-time accountant. Involved in some money laundering for a firm in Camden. Looks like they caught up with him."
Quinn stood up, the damp cold of the station finally seeping through her boots. She checked her watch . The leather was worn, the time was correct. Everything was back to normal. Every piece of evidence pointed to a simple, violent crime. She reached into her bag for her notebook and felt a sharp sting on her finger.
She pulled her hand out. A small, silver sliver was embedded in her skin. She drew it out. It wasn't metal. It was a shard of glass, and as she held it to the light, she saw a tiny, distorted reflection of a blue-eyed man sitting at a mahogany desk.
"Detective?" Miller called out from the tracks. "Coroner’s here."
Quinn tucked the shard into her inner pocket. She looked at the shadows in the corner of the station, where the darkness still seemed just a little too thick.
"You go ahead, Miller. I need to make a call to the British Museum."
She turned and walked toward the exit. She passed the ticket booth one last time. Scrawled in the dust of the window were three words.
*Don't look back.*
Quinn didn't look back. She climbed the stairs toward the surface, toward the city that thought it was real, while the shard in her pocket hummed against her hip. The cold Camden air hit her, the smell of rain and exhaust replacing the scent of ozone. She pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled through her contacts until she found a number that shouldn't have been there—a number with no name, just a string of symbols that looked like a compass dial .
She hit dial. The phone didn't ring. It whispered.
"Market's closed, Detective. But the archives are always open."
Quinn ended the call and looked at the moon hanging over the London skyline. It was full, pale, and looked remarkably like a bone token tossed onto a velvet sky. She started her car, the engine turning over with a mechanical grind that felt loud and honest in the morning air.
As she drove away from the station, the maglite on her passenger seat flickered once and died. Quinn didn't replace the batteries. She didn't need light to see the shadows anymore. She knew exactly where they were hiding .