Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ955E3F172N0D2A7HN1ZGEM

The dampness of the abandoned station clung to Quinn's coat, a stubborn chill that had little to do with the London subterranean drafts. She tugged her collar higher, her eyes sweeping over the cavernous space. Floodlights cast garish pools of yellow across decaying brickwork and discarded refuse. The air vibrated with the low hum of unseen machinery, a stark contrast to the tomb-like silence the place ought to hold. Forensics milled about, their white suits stark against the grime, their hushed voices swallowed by the immensity. Sergeant Davies materialized from the gloom, his face a palette of fatigue and perplexity. "Nothing makes sense, Detective," Davies said, his voice raspy. "Victim's name is Arthur Finch. Local bloke, no known enemies, no obvious connection to… well, to being in a forgotten Tube station miles under the city." He gestured toward the body, still partially draped. "Single puncture wound. Directly to the heart. Surgical precision. But half the blood we'd expect is just… gone. Like it was siphoned. And the blood *around* the wound? It's not smeared like a knife wound would make. It's almost… crystallized. Little flecks of red like tiny garnets on the fabric." Quinn moved towards the body. Finch lay on his back, eyes wide with a surprise that had solidified into a rictus. A faded band t-shirt strained across his chest. Quinn ignored Davies and knelt, her gaze tracing the edge of the sheet. She noticed it immediately: a scattering of fine, almost glittery dust near Finch’s outstretched left hand. It wasn't uniform. Some patches were denser, glittering like crushed obsidian under her flashlight beam, others sparse, almost invisible. And the smell, that odd, cloying sweetness that cut through the metallic tang of blood, seemed strongest here. It wasn't decay. It was too precise. "This dust," Quinn said, her voice sharp. "Bag it separately. Full spectrum analysis. I want to know what it is, where it came from. And the air quality sensors – run them again. Discreetly. Check for airborne particulates, anything beyond dust and exhaust fumes, which shouldn't even be a factor down here." Davies nodded, his movements efficient, professional. But Quinn saw him glance over her shoulder, a flicker of something akin to apprehension passing across his face. She knew why. He’d heard the whispers. The weirdness that clung to the fringes of her career, ever since Morris. Then, a voice, clear and steady, cut through the low murmur of the crime scene. "The blood isn't crystallized, Sergeant. It's been preserved. Rapidly. And the wound, it's an exit. Not an entry." Quinn pivoted. Eva Kowalski stood a few yards away, her round glasses glinting, her worn leather satchel clutched like a shield. She wore sensible boots and practical trousers, but her presence here, in this sanctioned zone of death, felt as incongruous as a peacock at a funeral. "How do you figure that, Miss Kowalski?" Quinn's voice was cold. This woman was an unknown quantity, an intrusion. "Are you a pathologist now?" "No," the researcher replied, her green eyes meeting Quinn's directly. "But I've studied enough alchemical texts to recognize patterns. The purity of the wound, the lack of spatter, the strange residue… it suggests a weapon that doesn't cut, but *disintegrates* matter on a molecular level. Something that passes through, then pulls substances with it." Eva gestured vaguely towards a shadowed alcove further down the platform. "And whatever energy was involved in that… it's left a visible scar on the environment." Quinn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Energy. Scar. This was precisely the kind of pseudo-intellectual mumbo jumbo that made her blood boil. She’d seen enough genuine horror, enough cold, hard facts, to dismiss such notions. Yet, the dust… the smell… the blood. It didn't fit. She pushed herself away from the body and moved towards the alcove Eva indicated. The farther she walked, the more the ambient chill intensified. It wasn't just the underground’s dampness; this had a dry, almost electric quality that prickled her skin. Her flashlight beam swept across a section of the tunnel wall, revealing nothing but grimy, soot-stained concrete. Standard London Underground. Old, neglected. Beneath a scattering of loose stones and debris, something glinted. Quinn knelt again, carefully clearing away loose rubble. It was a small compass, its brass casing dulled by a heavy patina of green verdigris. Etched into its surface were spiraling symbols that looked less like navigation aids and more like warnings. The needle, instead of pointing north, quivered for a moment before locking onto the wall directly in front of her. It pulsed with a faint, internal light. "Davies," Quinn called, her voice betraying none of the sudden unease tightening her gut. "Bag this. And have the tech crew scan this specific section of wall. Energy signatures, thermal anomalies, sub-surface density… anything out of the ordinary." "I can tell you what it is, Detective," Eva said, her voice drifting from behind her. Quinn turned. Eva walked closer, her expression one of professional curiosity rather than fear. "That's a Veil Compass. Crafted by a Shade artisan, they say. They're attuned to disturbances. To tears in the fabric of reality. Rifts. Portals. If it's pointing there…" Eva gestured to the wall. "...then something significant is either on the other side, or very recently passed through." Quinn stared at the compass, then at the wall. Veil Market. Bone token. Shade artisan. The words from the initial briefing began to coalesce. She had dismissed the Veil Market as a convenient cover for smugglers and fences. Now… she wasn't so sure. Her partner, Morris… the case had ended in that disused warehouse, strange lights, unnatural cold, and then… nothing she could properly explain. Just an empty space where Morris had been. She glanced back at the victim, Arthur Finch. A local bloke, no enemies. Why here? And why killed with a weapon that shattered and preserved blood while apparently leaving an exit wound? The glittering dust caught her eye again, still visible on Finch's fingertip where the sheet had slipped. It looked like powdered obsidian, or perhaps something far stranger. She remembered the sweetness in the air, too potent to be natural decay. It was the smell of something *altered*. "A compass that finds rifts," Quinn murmured, turning the Veil Compass over in her gloved hand. "And a wall that's apparently a doorway. The dust, the blood, the wound… it's all starting to sound less like a murder and more like… disposal. Or escape." She looked at Eva, suspicion warring with a dawning, unwelcome understanding. "You said it was preserved and pulled things *with* it. What if this isn't about a killer who used a weird weapon? What if the weapon *was* the rift?" Quinn stood, the Veil Compass cold in her palm, its needle unwavering. She looked from the compass to the wall, then back to the body. Finch hadn't been murdered here. Not in the traditional sense. His death, the vanishing blood, the peculiar residue – it was all a byproduct. A messy aftermath. The *event* had happened here, a violent rupture or transition. And Finch… Finch had simply been in the wrong place when the door opened. Or perhaps, he’d been the *purpose* for its opening. "A portal," Quinn breathed, the word alien on her tongue. She felt a ghost of the same ice that had gripped her when Morris vanished, a chilling certainty that rational explanation had left this place long ago. The glittering dust shimmered under her flashlight. It wasn't just residual matter; it was the signature of transit. She turned to Davies, her voice cutting through the sterile hum of the machinery. "Get teams to seal off this entire section of the tunnel. No one in or out. I want a full spectral analysis on that wall, Davies, not just a basic scan. And for God’s sake, get an environmental suit for forensics if this dust is volatile. This isn't a homicide scene anymore. Not entirely."