Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ9543NMN5A3EDZY2JK14V6P

The rapid response vehicle shuddered to a halt, rattling its windows in the cavernous space. Detective Harlow Quinn exited first, the heels of her practical boots echoing a sharp staccato against the grimy concrete. The air, thick with the damp-earth tang of the London Underground, held something else too: the cloying sweetness of unfamiliar incense, the sharp tang of something metallic, and an unmistakable, ancient scent, like dried blood and fear. She cataloged it all, even as her eyes, the colour of rich earth, swept the scene with military precision. This wasn’t a crime scene. Not really. Not in the way she knew. This was an unearthed secret. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden sprawled before her, a forgotten cathedral of grimy tiles and rusted iron. Floodlights, hastily erected by the forensics team, chased away some of the encroaching gloom, starkly illuminating the impossible. Stalls, some still laden with bizarre goods, stood crookedly against the tunnel walls. Jars of shimmering dust, intricate cages holding unseen things, leathery bundles, and wickedly curved blades gleamed under the harsh light. A single, overturned cart spilled iridescent scales onto the platform. Uniformed officers moved through it all, their expressions a mix of awe and bewildered professionalism, like tourists in an alien museum. “Detective Quinn.” Sergeant Miller, a young, earnest man, met her halfway across the platform, a forensics mask hanging uselessly from one ear. He scrubbed a hand over his crew cut. “Didn’t think we’d get you out for this one.” Harlow merely raised an eyebrow. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair caught the floodlight, tiny silver threads glinting. “Something tells me this isn’t your average mugging.” She glanced at the entrance, a gaping maw in the tunnel wall, where a scatter of small, bleached bone tokens lay discarded on the ground. Entry fee, she thought. To where? “No, ma’am. Definitely not.” Miller swallowed. “Victim’s just ahead. Professor Kowalski’s already had a look.” Harlow’s sharp jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the name. Eva Kowalski. The Met had brought the 'occult expert' in after Morris. Harlow remembered her perfectly, a nervous but brilliant young woman, thick round glasses perched on her nose, a satchel perpetually overflowing with ancient texts. A research assistant from the British Museum, no less. But a consultant couldn't be a colleague, not in the way Miller meant. She was an outsider, something Harlow never forgot even as she’d been forced to acknowledge the truth of Kowalski’s insights, however outlandish. She moved with an almost silent gait, heading towards the gathering of forensic technicians and a figure with curly red hair she knew instantly. The platform sloped towards an old service tunnel, where the crime scene tape glowed orange in the artificial light. The victim lay slumped against the arched entrance of the tunnel, a male, early forties, well-dressed, but now utterly still. His eyes stared vacantly at the grimy ceiling. No obvious signs of struggle. No bullet wounds, no stab wounds. He looked… drained. The only overt injury was a dark, bruised mark on his neck, like a handprint applied with unnatural force. Eva Kowalski looked up from where she knelt beside the body, her green eyes widening slightly behind her round glasses. She wore a pristine white forensics suit, an absurd contrast to her perpetually rumpled appearance and the worn leather satchel slung over her shoulder, even inside the protective gear. She tucked a wayward curl of red hair behind her left ear, a tell-tale nervous habit. “Detective Quinn,” Eva said, her voice a little breathless. “Good, you’re here. This is… quite something.” “So I see.” Harlow knelt, keeping a respectful distance from the body, letting her gaze sweep over every detail. The victim’s hands were splayed, unusually flat. Near his left hand, partially obscured by his sleeve, was a small, ornate compass. Its brass casing showed a green patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with strange, intricate sigils. Its needle, however, wasn’t pointing north. It quivered, pointing erratically towards the darkness of the service tunnel. Eva followed her gaze. “Ah, that. It’s an antique of some sort. The forensics team scanned it. Seems to be a type of… shadow compass, perhaps. Not standard navigation. But decorative, mostly, I’d wager.” She paused, then added, “Could be a trinket he purchased here. The market is known for exotic curios.” “You’re familiar with this market, Professor?” Harlow’s tone was carefully neutral. Eva ducked her head slightly. “Through my research, yes. The Veil Market. It’s a travelling underground network. Specialises in… esoteric goods. Legend has it it moves locations every full moon. Apparently, this abandoned station was its last stop.” “So, ‘esoteric goods’ might include whatever drained this man?” Harlow’s voice was low, cutting through the hum of generator lights. Eva shifted, her freckled complexion seeming a shade paler under the harsh lights. “The primary cause of death, according to the preliminary assessment, seems to be cardiac arrest. Possibly induced by extreme panic or some kind of rapid toxin. There’s a faint residue found on the neck, where that contusion is. Forensics are testing it, but it’s… unusual. Nothing in their standard database.” Harlow touched the worn leather watch on her left wrist, a habitual gesture. “And the compass?” “As I said, a curio. I believe the sigils are protective in nature, common in various ancient cultures intended to ward off malign presences.” Eva’s voice was becoming more assured, falling into lecture mode. “Many belief systems hold that such symbols can influence energy fields, or even direct spiritual essence, but primarily in a passive-defensive capacity.” Harlow studied Eva. The young woman’s interpretation was so… *academic*. So rational, even when discussing the irrational. It was almost too neat. She was presenting a story that fit her field, but perhaps deliberately excluded the more unsettling, active possibilities. Harlow had seen enough after Morris’s death to know better. She leaned closer to the victim, ignoring Eva’s nervous cough. The handprint on the neck. It was dark, almost black, and the skin around it was unnaturally cold. But it wasn’t just a print. There were minute, almost invisible striations radiating out from the main impression, like tiny threads pulling at the skin, or etched into it. “And these marks, Professor?” Harlow indicated the delicate tracery with her chin. They were barely visible, requiring a keen eye. Forensics might miss them, or dismiss them as incidental. Eva peered closer, her forehead creasing. “Hmm. I… I hadn’t noticed those. Very faint. Suggestive of scarring, or perhaps a residual burn? Again, possibly linked to the toxin.” “Or something else entirely.” Harlow’s gaze swept the surrounding area. The crime scene tape had been set up to encompass the victim and a small radius around him. But Harlow looked beyond it, at the strange stalls, at the shadows just outside the floodlight’s reach. The floor around the body was clean, almost unnaturally so. No footprints except those of the responding officers. No struggle. No signs of anything being dragged. “He died here, against this wall, precisely where he was found,” Eva stated, as if anticipating Harlow’s thought process. “How do you know that, Professor?” Eva hesitated. “Well, the blood spatter analysis indicates he was in this position when the trauma occurred. It’s a clean fall backwards.” Harlow stood, turning her back to the body for a moment, letting her eyes graze the rest of the abandoned market. The floor. The concrete floor of the platform showed subtle variations in texture. Near the victim, it was pristine. Farther away, it was grimy, wet with an oily sheen. But then, as her eyes travelled to a section closer to the entrance, just outside the marked-off scene, she saw a darker patch. A damp, black footprint. Too big for a human. Too fluid in its edges. Animal? No, something else. And then another, faintly luminous, just beyond a discarded stall selling what looked like skeletal remains. No, the victim hadn't just *fallen*. Someone had put him there. “This market,” Harlow turned back to Eva, her brown eyes intense. “It’s a black market, you said. What do they trade in? Ancient texts? Or something… more potent?” Eva fidgeted with her glasses. “They trade in enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, information…” She trailed off, avoiding Harlow’s gaze. “And what about extraction? Extraction of… essences?” Eva’s head snapped up. Her green eyes met Harlow’s, a flicker of something she tried to hide behind academic detachment. Alarm. Fear, perhaps. “The marks on his neck aren’t burns, Professor,” Harlow continued, her voice gaining a quiet edge, “They’re suction marks. Like something *fed* on him. And that compass isn't just a curio. It’s twitching. Why? Because something supernatural happened here. Something very unnatural. And it’s still here. That tunnel.” She pointed to the black maw behind the victim. The Veil Compass quivered again, its ancient needle now jabbing insistently towards the darkness. Eva opened her mouth, then closed it. Her usual nervous energy had coalesced into something rigid. The easy academic explanations had evaporated. “You said protective sigils,” Harlow pressed. “Perhaps they were meant to protect from what’s beyond that tunnel. Or from whatever crafted that compass in the first place.” She remembered the intel reports she’d been given on the Veil Market, from a source that had vanished shortly after. She’d dismissed most of it then. But Morris… he’d believed. He’d seen things. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins. Harlow took a deep breath, the strange scents of the market filling her lungs. The metallic tang grew stronger. Not just old blood, but fresh purpose. She had a feeling she knew what was through that service tunnel. A rift. A portal. And whatever had drained the victim had likely retreated there. “And you, Professor,” Harlow said, her voice dropping, “Why didn’t you want us to look too closely?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she took a powerful flashlight from one of the forensics techs, ignoring his startled expression. She stared at the service tunnel, then back at the victim. Then at Eva, whose eyes were wide and unblinking behind her glasses. The compass on the ground spun violently, then settled, its needle pointing directly into the blackness. The air grew colder. “Sergeant Miller,” Harlow called, her voice echoing. “Secure this area. No one goes in or out. And I want a full sweep of the entire station. I want to know what’s been moving in these shadows. Every inch.” She flicked on the flashlight, its powerful beam cutting through the dense gloom of the service tunnel. The light was swallowed almost instantly by the profound darkness. But for a split second, something had glimmered at the very edge of the beam, something that wasn't metal or stone. Something that looked like a pair of watching eyes. Harlow took a step forward, towards the tunnel, her resolve hardening. The military precision returned to her bearing. She wouldn't let this be another Morris. Not again.