Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMFEPCK7CAQA3EB3XSSY0X

Detective Harlow Quinn's boots crunched over broken tiles as she descended the maintenance stairs into the abandoned Underground station. The beam of her torch cut through decades of darkness, illuminating patches of graffiti and crumbling Victorian brickwork. Her watch showed 3:47 AM - the witching hour, as her grandmother would have said. "Scene's down on the platform," called Detective Sergeant Peters from below. His voice echoed oddly in the cavernous space. "It's a weird one, ma'am." Quinn had learned to dread those words. Weird meant complications, and complications meant paperwork. More importantly, weird meant the gnawing feeling in her gut that had started the night she lost Morris would return. The platform appeared frozen in time - defunct advertising posters from the 1980s still clung to the walls, their edges curled and yellowed. The investigation team had set up portable floodlights that cast harsh shadows across the scene. In their glare, Quinn spotted something that made her pause: a brass compass lying in a pool of dried blood. "Victim's been identified as Eva Kowalski," Peters said, consulting his notebook. "Twenty-six, research assistant at the British Museum. Found by track maintenance workers about two hours ago." Quinn crouched beside the compass, careful not to disturb the evidence markers. The brass casing bore an unusual patina, and what looked like elaborate engravings caught the light. Not decorative scrollwork, she realized, but something more intentional. Her fingers itched to pick it up, but she kept her hands firmly clasped around her torch. "Cause of death?" she asked, studying the blood pattern. Something was off about it. "That's where it gets strange," Peters said. "No obvious wounds, no signs of struggle. Just the blood pool, but-" "But no body," Quinn finished. She stood, her knees protesting the movement. "And the blood pattern's wrong. Look at the spatter." Peters frowned. "What do you mean?" Quinn traced the air above the dried blood. "It's perfectly circular. Blood doesn't pool like that naturally - it follows gravity, terrain. This is like someone drew a circle with it." She swept her torch beam across the platform. Dozens of similar circles dotted the concrete, each containing different items: coins, bits of bone, what looked like herb bundles. Most were partially scraped away, but the one with the compass remained pristine. "We're treating it as a murder scene," Peters said. "Forensics is running tests on the blood now. The victim's friend reported her missing yesterday morning. Said Kowalski was working on some kind of research project, been acting secretive lately." Quinn's attention caught on a detail. "The friend mention what kind of research?" "Something about ancient artifacts. She works in the restricted archives, apparently." The detective walked the perimeter of the platform, her steps measured and precise. Morris used to tease her about it - said she moved like she was still in basic training. The memory stung, but she pushed it aside. Focus on the present. "Peters, what do you know about the London Underground's dead stations?" He shrugged. "Dozen or so of them scattered around the city. Closed during the war, or when lines got rerouted. This one's been sealed since '84." "Then why does the air smell fresh?" Quinn turned slowly, taking in the space. "No dust on these blood circles. No rat droppings. For an abandoned station, it's remarkably clean." She moved to one of the platform edges, playing her torch along the track bed. There - barely visible unless you knew to look for it - fresh scuff marks on the rails. "This station's been in use," she said. "Recently and regularly. Those maintenance workers who found the scene - I want to interview them personally." Peters made a note. "You think they're involved?" "I think they're lying. No routine maintenance on a sealed station." Quinn returned to the compass, studying it without touching. The face was etched with intricate symbols that made her eyes hurt if she looked too long. "Get this photographed and bagged. I want to know everything about it - where it was made, who sold it, any fingerprints." "You think that's our murder weapon? Bit small, isn't it?" Quinn remembered Morris's last case - the impossible angles of his body, the symbols burned into the wall, the way the coroner's report listed natural causes despite the evidence of her own eyes. "I think," she said carefully, "that we're looking at this wrong. The blood circle isn't where someone died. It's where something was summoned." "Ma'am?" "Get me everything you can find on Eva Kowalski. Employment records, social media, credit card statements. I want to know everywhere she's been in the past month." Quinn straightened, her expression grim. "And find out if she had any connection to Detective Sergeant Morris's case from three years ago." Peters looked uncertain, but nodded. As he headed off to make calls, Quinn stood alone on the platform, listening to the silence. In her eighteen years on the force, she'd learned to trust her instincts. Right now, they were screaming that this was just the beginning. She checked her watch again: 4:13 AM. The witching hour was over, but something told her the real darkness was yet to come. Somewhere in this city, Eva Kowalski was either dead or missing, and a compass that shouldn't exist was pointing toward answers Quinn wasn't sure she was ready to face.