Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQV65ZG7KNH546AMNXMC8G

The air in the abandoned Tube station was thick with the smell of damp earth, cold metal, and something else, something acrid and chemical that clung to the back of the throat. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the tiled steps, her worn leather watch a familiar weight on her wrist, its presence a grounding ritual. The rhythmic tap of her steel-capped boots on the concrete was the only sound that broke the heavy stillness, a sound that spoke of order in a place that had long since forgotten it. Forensic lamps cast stark, white pools of light on the platform, pushing back the oppressive dark of the disused Northern Line branch beneath Camden. A uniformed officer nodded her through the cordon. "Down there, Detective. On the platform." Harlow’s gaze swept the scene. It was all wrong. Crime scenes had a certain texture, a chaotic energy she could read like a book. This felt staged, quiet in a way that set her teeth on edge. Her partner, Morris, had called it the ‘hush.’ He’d been right about a lot of things, right up until the moment he vanished into thin air three years ago, leaving behind only a case file full of impossibilities Harlow had forced herself to forget. She pushed the memory down and focused. The victim was a man, mid-forties, dressed in expensive-looking clothes that were now sodden with grime and blood. He lay on his back near the edge of the platform, one arm thrown out as if reaching for the tracks. The cause of death appeared obvious: a single, deep puncture wound to the chest. Messy, but straightforward. A robbery gone wrong, a deal soured. That was the official story, the one being shaped by the junior detective already on scene. But Harlow saw the things the story didn't account for. She saw the way the fine layer of dust coating the platform was undisturbed for a five-foot radius around the body, a perfect, unnatural circle. No scuffle. No footprints leading to or from the victim. It was as if he had simply materialised there, bleeding out onto the pristine, filthy floor. "Detective Quinn," a voice said, pulling her from her thoughts. It was Detective Sergeant Davies, young and eager, with a face that still hadn't lost its boyish roundness. "Nasty one. Looks like he was stabbed with something sharp. Wallet's gone, phone too. We're thinking it was a mugging, got cornered down here." Davies gestured vaguely with his notebook. "CSIs are dusting for prints, but it's a ghost town. Hard to get anything useful." Harlow didn't reply, her attention snagged by a figure standing back in the shadows, just beyond the glare of the forensic lights. It was a woman, slight, with a cloud of curly red hair that seemed to drink the light. She wore round glasses and clutched a worn leather satchel to her chest like a shield. She wasn't police. She wasn't forensics. She was just… there. "Who's that?" Harlow asked, her voice clipped. Davies followed her gaze. "Oh. That's Eva Kowalski. She found the body. Says she's an urban explorer, likes photographing forgotten bits of the city. Spooked, but she's been helpful." Harlow’s jaw tightened. Urban explorers didn't usually stick around. They certainly didn't look like they'd just stepped out of a university library. She walked towards the woman, her steps measured, deliberate. The woman flinched as she approached, tucking a stray strand of red hair behind her left ear in a gesture so practiced it was almost involuntary. "Ms. Kowalski? Detective Quinn. I'm taking over the investigation." "Of course," the woman said. Her voice was softer than Harlow expected, with a hint of an academic lilt. "I've told the other officer everything I can." "You found him," Harlow stated, not asked. It wasn't a question of fact, but of intent. "Yes. I come down here… sometimes. To take pictures. The acoustics are fascinating." Eva pushed her glasses up her nose. "I heard a noise. A sort of… tearing sound. And then a thud. I thought part of the ceiling had come down. I went to look, and… he was just there." "Did you see anyone else? Hear anyone running away?" Eva hesitated. Her green eyes, magnified by the lenses, darted towards the victim and then away again. "No. That's the thing. It was completely silent after the… thud. No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing." Davies’s theory of a mugging was already collapsing under the weight of its own silence. No footprints, no getaway, no sounds. Harlow crouched by the body, the cold seeping through the knees of her trousers. She ignored the CSI tech who tried to wave her away and let her gaze trace the details. The victim's clothes were high-quality, but his hands were rough, calloused. A workman who dressed well. She noted the lack of defensive wounds on his hands or arms. He hadn't fought back. And then she saw it. Tucked just inside the man's coat pocket, barely visible, was the corner of a small, circular object. Using a pen from her pocket, she carefully hooked it and drew it out. It was a compass, but unlike any she had ever seen. It was small, made of brass, with a faint greenish patina of verdigris blooming in its crevices. The face was etched with intricate, swirling sigils that looked nothing like any navigational markings she knew. The needle wasn't pointing north. It wasn't pointing anywhere, in fact. It was spinning, slowly, erratically, as if searching for a magnetic pole that didn't exist. She stood up, the compass held delicately between her thumb and forefinger. The metal was cold, unnaturally so. She walked back over to Eva Kowalski, who was watching her with an expression of dawning apprehension. "Recognise this?" Harlow asked, holding it up. Eva’s breath hitched. She took a half-step back, her knuckles white where she gripped the satchel strap. "Where… where did you get that?" "On the victim. Don't lie to me, Ms. Kowalski. You knew him, didn't you? Or you know what this is." The woman’s composure fractured. "His name is—was—Julian Croft. He was a… a collector. Of rare items." She lowered her voice. "That's a Veil Compass. It's not supposed to be here. It's not supposed to exist outside of… certain places." "A Veil Compass," Harlow repeated, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. "And what does it do?" Eva finally met her gaze, her fear warring with a fierce, desperate intelligence. "It points, Detective. It points to things that aren't supposed to be here. Rifts. Doorways. Weaknesses in the world. It's a tool for navigating the unseen." Harlow looked from the spinning needle in her hand to the perfect circle of undisturbed dust around the body. To the lack of footprints, the silent arrival, the impossible wound. It was absurd. It was insane. It was the same brand of impossible that had swallowed DS Morris whole. She felt a cold dread creep up her spine, the kind of dread that had nothing to do with the chill of the abandoned station. "So you're telling me," Harlow said, her voice dangerously low, "that our killer didn't walk in here. That he… what? Stepped through a doorway?" "I don't know," Eva whispered, her eyes fixed on the compass. "But it would explain how he got into a locked station without leaving a single footprint. It would explain why Julian is dead. He wasn't mugged. He was judged." Harlow closed her fingers around the compass. The needle stopped spinning and settled, pointing not north, but directly at her, a silent, accusatory finger in the dark. She was standing in the middle of a crime scene that defied the laws of physics, holding an object that defied reason, and listening to a woman who spoke of unseen worlds. The official story was a lie. And for the first time in three years, Harlow Quinn let herself wonder if the truth was something far, far worse.