Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95M36HD7E3VYR9NSQVXYZ7

The Tube’s low rumble vibrated through the cracked concrete beneath Harlow’s boots, a phantom tremor from the active lines above. She navigated the gloom, her torch beam cutting through the dust-mote-thick air, past a skeletal turnstile, then down a derelict escalator coated in a century of grime. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth, metallic decay, and something acrid, almost floral, that clung to the back of her throat. “Quinn, you made it.” DS Miller stood beside yellow crime scene tape, his broad shoulders filling the narrow tunnel. His breath plumed in the cold, his face tight. Beyond him, the platform stretched into darkness, its advertising panels long gone, exposing pitted brickwork. A single portable floodlight cast harsh shadows, illuminating a macabre tableau on the tracks. “Give me a briefing, Miller,” Harlow’s voice, a low rasp, echoed back. She stepped under the tape, her worn leather watch glinting on her left wrist. “Vic’s name is Alistair Vance, known for petty theft, low-level dealing. Found him face down, wedged between the third rail and the platform edge.” Miller gestured towards the body. “Looks like a street fight, probably went south. Stab wounds, blunt force trauma to the head. Standard fare for this part of town, especially in these… tourist traps.” He kicked at a discarded, intricately carved bone. Harlow didn't acknowledge the kick. Her gaze swept the expanse, taking in the scene. The chill in this abandoned station felt deeper than the London winter. Makeshift stalls, their canvas flaps ripped, slumped against the tunnel walls. Scattered rubbish – unusual trinkets, dried herbs, iridescent powders – spoke of a recent, chaotic exodus. This was the Veil Market, all right. Another full moon, another hidden bazaar. And now, a body. She moved towards Vance, her gait precise, a military kind of rhythm. A uniformed officer knelt by the body, carefully bagging evidence. The floodlight illuminated Vance’s still form, his long, dark coat torn, revealing a tattered shirt underneath. Dark, congealed blood stained the grey ballast. Harlow knelt, ignoring the damp chill seeping through her trousers. “Hands, Miller,” Harlow said, her eyes fixed on the body. “No defensive wounds, if that's what you're asking,” Miller offered, reading her mind. “But he’s been in fights before. Vance usually ran, or he took a beating. He wasn’t one for putting up much of a struggle.” Harlow traced a line with her gloved finger along the track bed. Her brown eyes narrowed. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer coated the rail beside Vance. She angled her head, catching the light. “What’s the initial cause of death?” “Multiple stab wounds to the torso, sharp object. Possibly a knife. ME thinks he bled out fast. The head trauma looks post-mortem, or happened concurrently.” Miller paused. “Looks like he didn’t know what hit him. Or who.” She stood, sweeping her gaze along the immediate area around Vance. The ballast around the body appeared pristine. No displaced gravel. No scuff marks from heavy boots. Not a single stone had shifted. She walked around the body, her focus minute, searching for scuffs, for signs of struggle beyond the wounds on Vance’s body. There were none. Vance might have taken a beating, but something was wrong here. The scene told a story of violence, yet lacked its usual punctuation. “The ME is pretty clear on the weapon. A knife, a blade of some sort,” Miller reiterated, rubbing his hands together. “We're looking for a common street blade, probably.” Harlow approached the wall directly opposite the body. Near eye level, where a struggle might have left a mark, the brickwork bore three parallel gashes. They ran vertically, deep gouges in the aged mortar, as if something with powerful claws scraped against it. But the edges, under her careful inspection, were too clean. Too sharp. Not jagged or splintered like stone against metal or bone. “These marks,” Harlow pointed with her chin. “What do you make of these?” Miller peered closer, tilting his head. “Probably from Vance getting pushed into the wall, maybe a buckle on his jacket. Or the attacker, trying to get leverage.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “It’s a rough-and-tumble spot. Nothing unusual.” She ran a finger over the deepest groove. The edges felt polished. She smelled it, a faint trace of that acrid-floral scent that still lingered. She moved back toward Vance, her eyes tracking an invisible path. Vance’s fingers were splayed, resting lightly on the gravel, palms up. His coat was ripped, true, but the tears looked almost surgical, clean-edged, not ragged from a sustained fight. There was barely any debris caught in the fabric. “No evidence of a robbery?” “Wallet was still on him, small amount of cash. Watch, cheap one, still on his wrist. Nothing valuable missing. Unless they took something less… tangible.” Miller’s voice held a trace of sarcasm, a subtle jab at the weirdness of the former market. “No, they took something tangible,” Harlow mused, her gaze fixed on Vance’s left hand. His index finger bore a single, thin band of white. Not skin, but something skeletal. A bone token. It was common currency among Veil Market patrons, an admission pass, a ward against certain predatory elements. But this token seemed different. It was fractured, splintered precisely down the middle, as if snapped by immense, focused force. She remembered DS Morris, the unexplainable circumstances of his death. The way the scene hadn’t added up, not with conventional explanations. The way her gut had screamed something else. Here, that same unease bloomed. “Miller, look at this,” Harlow called out, kneeling again by Vance’s hand. She pointed to the fractured bone token. “The split. It’s too clean. And the hand itself. He wasn’t clutching it. It’s just… there.” Miller knelt beside her, squinting. “Bone token. Means he was here for the market. Someone probably grabbed his hand, twisted for a quick robbery, splintered the token by accident.” “He has no defensive wounds. No bruises on his wrists or forearms from a grapple. His hands aren't clenched. There are no skin abrasions or tears around the token. And if someone grabbed his hand, how does the token break so cleanly down the middle, lengthwise, without damaging the finger beneath or twisting his hand?” Harlow’s voice remained level, but the question hung sharp in the air. She picked up a small, glittering shard of what looked like obsidian, a few inches from Vance’s head. It reflected the floodlight with an unnatural gleam. Not rock. Not glass. It felt unnervingly light in her gloved hand. She remembered the acrid-floral smell, stronger now close to the body, almost like burnt sugar. “This,” Harlow said, holding out the shard. “Did CSU bag this?” Miller shrugged. “Probably. Looks like debris from the market. Could be anything.” “No,” Harlow contradicted, her gaze moving from the shard to the deep, precise gashes on Vance’s coat. “Look at the tears in his jacket. And then look at the gashes on the wall. The depth, the width, the edges.” She held the shard up. “This isn’t a mugging, Miller. This wasn’t a street fight that got out of hand. These wounds, this broken token, these marks, all tell a different story.” She put the shard back down, her fingers brushing the cold, damp ballast. “Vance wasn’t killed with a knife. He was killed by something with claws. Something that could exert immense, controlled pressure. Something that broke bone cleanly, without a struggle. Something that left no scuff marks, no displaced gravel, because it didn’t fight him. It just… tore him apart.”