Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMTT3ASAQKQVTAVJXGEHH1

The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden smelled of damp concrete and rust, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped off the last rung of the maintenance ladder, her boots hitting the platform with a sharp *clack* that echoed through the hollow darkness. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, slicing across peeling posters and graffiti-scarred tiles before landing on the body. It lay sprawled near the edge of the platform, one arm twisted beneath it, the other flung out as if reaching for something just beyond its grasp. A man—mid-thirties, dark hair, cheap suit now stained with something darker. His face was frozen in an expression Quinn couldn’t quite read. Not fear. Not pain. Something closer to *recognition*, like he’d seen the thing that killed him and understood, too late, what it meant. “You’re late.” Quinn didn’t turn. She knew the voice. Knew the way it carried that edge of amusement, like the world was a joke only a few were in on. “Had to park three streets over. Someone blocked the entrance with a van.” “Ah. That’d be me.” Detective Sergeant Elias Carter stepped into the torchlight, his hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat. He was younger than Quinn by a decade, all sharp cheekbones and easy grins, the kind of cop who charmed witnesses into confessions before they realized they’d said too much. “Thought you’d appreciate the privacy.” Quinn crouched beside the body, her leather watch creaking as she reached for the man’s wrist. No pulse, of course. Rigor had already set in. “You called it in as a suspicious death. Why?” Carter shrugged. “No obvious cause. No signs of struggle. And look at his hands.” Quinn did. The man’s fingers were clean, nails neatly trimmed. No defensive wounds. No dirt under them. Just… nothing. She shifted her torch to his face. His eyes were open, glassy, the pupils dilated. She leaned in, ignoring the way Carter exhaled sharply behind her. “What?” he asked. “No petechial hemorrhaging.” She tilted the man’s head gently. “No ligature marks. No bruising around the throat. If this was strangulation, there’d be *something*.” “Maybe it was quick.” “Quick enough to leave no trace?” Quinn stood, brushing her palms against her trousers. “You said there were no signs of struggle. What about the scene?” Carter gestured to the platform. “No scuff marks. No overturned debris. Just him, lying here like he sat down for a nap and never woke up.” Quinn’s torch flickered over the tiles. The beam caught something—a glint near the body’s outstretched hand. She stepped closer, crouching again. A small, circular object lay half-hidden beneath the man’s fingers. Brass, tarnished with age, etched with strange symbols. “What the hell is that?” Carter muttered. Quinn didn’t answer. She pulled a pen from her pocket and used it to nudge the object free. A compass. But not like any compass she’d seen before. The needle wasn’t pointing north. It wasn’t pointing at anything, in fact. It spun lazily, as if caught in a current only it could feel. “That’s… not normal,” Carter said. Quinn turned the compass over. The back was smooth, unmarked. No manufacturer’s stamp. No serial number. Just brass and those strange, looping sigils. She slipped it into an evidence bag, sealing it with a sharp *rip* of plastic. Carter was watching her, his expression unreadable. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re thinking?” Quinn stood, tucking the bag into her coat pocket. “I’m thinking this isn’t our first weird death this month.” “You’re still on that?” Carter’s voice was light, but there was an edge to it. “The others were overdoses. Bad batches. You know how it is.” “Three overdoses in two weeks, all in the same area, all with no prior history of drug use?” Quinn shook her head. “And now this. A man with no visible injuries, no signs of foul play, holding a compass that doesn’t work like a compass should.” Carter exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re reaching, Quinn. This is Camden. Weird shit happens here all the time.” “Not like this.” Quinn’s torch beam swept over the platform again, lingering on the shadows clinging to the far wall. Something about them didn’t sit right. They were too *thick*, like ink spilled across the tiles. She stepped closer, her boots scuffing against the concrete. Carter followed. “What are you looking at?” “Those marks.” Quinn crouched again, running her fingers along the edge of the shadow. It wasn’t a stain. It wasn’t dirt. It was *cold*. Like touching the inside of a freezer. “This isn’t graffiti.” “Then what is it?” Quinn didn’t answer. She pulled out her phone, snapping a few photos before standing. “We need to canvass the area. See if anyone saw anything.” Carter crossed his arms. “You’re not going to tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours, are you?” Quinn met his gaze. “Not yet.” Because the truth was, she didn’t know. Not entirely. But she knew this: the compass, the shadows, the way the air in the station felt *wrong*—like the moment before a storm breaks. And she knew that three years ago, in a flat not far from here, her partner had died in a way no one could explain. A way that had left the room colder than it should have been. A way that had made the paramedics whisper about *supernatural* causes before the official report had buried it under layers of bureaucratic bullshit. Quinn had spent the last three years pretending she didn’t believe in any of that. But the compass in her pocket was spinning again. And this time, it was pointing at her.