Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR25JMEWXZ9SV7F73M05AG

The abandoned Camden Tube station stank of rust and stagnant water. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the last metal staircase, her boots echoing against concrete that hadn't seen maintenance since the station closed in 1952. The beam from her torch cut through darkness thick as wool, catching on Victorian-era tile work and decades of grime. She'd received the anonymous tip three hours ago. Body in the old station. Come alone. Quinn never came alone. "Christ, it's like a tomb down here." DS Patel's voice bounced off the curved walls behind her. Young, eager, still believed the job was about justice rather than damage control. "Watch your step," Quinn said. "The platforms are crumbling." They emerged onto what had once been the northbound platform. Someone had set up battery-powered work lights in a rough semicircle, casting harsh shadows across the scene. The body lay near the platform edge, a man in his thirties wearing expensive trainers and a leather jacket that had seen better days. His wallet sat open beside him, cards and cash untouched. Quinn knelt, careful not to disturb the perimeter. She'd learned military precision during her years in the Royal Military Police, and eighteen years with the Met hadn't dulled those instincts. The victim's eyes stared at the vaulted ceiling, clouded but not yet fully glazed. Recent, then. Maybe six hours. "No visible wounds," Patel said, circling to the other side. "Heart attack?" "At thirty-five?" Quinn shifted her torch beam across the body. "Look at his hands." The fingers were splayed, knuckles scraped raw. Defensive wounds, or something else. The man's mouth hung open in a silent scream, and when Quinn leaned closer, she caught the faint smell beneath the station's must — something like ozone and copper, but wrong somehow. Twisted. Her left hand moved unconsciously to the worn leather watch on her wrist. Three years since Morris died, and she still checked the time by touch when something felt off. "Detective Quinn?" Patel held up an evidence bag. "Found this under the body." Quinn took the bag and held it to the light. A small brass compass, its face etched with symbols she didn't recognize. Protective sigils, maybe, if she believed in that sort of thing. The casing had a green patina of verdigris, and when she tilted the bag, the needle swung — not toward magnetic north, but toward the tunnel mouth behind her. "Bag it," she said. "And get photos of everything. The positioning, the scrapes on his hands, that discoloration on the platform." She stood and swept her torch across the wider scene. The work lights only illuminated about twenty feet in each direction, but beyond their reach, the platform stretched into shadow. And there — her beam caught something on the far wall. Scratches in the grime, deliberate marks forming patterns. Quinn walked toward them, her footsteps hollow. Behind her, Patel's camera flash strobed across the body. The marks weren't graffiti. Too precise, too intentional. They formed a rough circle with radiating lines, like a child's drawing of the sun. Or a diagram. And at the center, that same symbol she'd seen on the compass. "Patel." She kept her voice level. "When did the tip come in?" "Logged at oh-four-hundred hours." "And we're the first responders?" "Yes, ma'am. Dispatch said you requested—" "I didn't request anything." Silence, punctuated by water dripping somewhere in the tunnels. Quinn's jaw tightened. Someone had called this in specifically for her. Someone who knew she'd come, who knew she'd see what others might miss. She turned back to the body, studying the scene with fresh eyes. The wallet open but nothing stolen. The expensive trainers caked with tunnel mud, suggesting he'd walked down here rather than being dumped. The compass tucked beneath him as if he'd clutched it to his chest. And those scrapes on his hands — Quinn crouched again, this time examining the platform edge near the body. Fresh gouges in the concrete, fingernail width. She played her torch along the edge toward the tunnel mouth. More gouges, a trail of them, as if someone had tried to pull themselves away from something. "He was dragged," she said. "But there's no—" Patel stopped. "There's no drag marks on the body. No scuffing on the jacket." "No." Quinn stood, following the gouge marks with her torch. They led to the platform edge, then stopped at a section of wall that looked darker than the rest. Water damage, maybe. Or — She pressed her palm against it. Cold, far colder than the surrounding stone. And that smell again, ozone and copper and something underneath that made her teeth ache. "Ma'am, we should wait for the full forensics team." Quinn pulled her hand back. Her palm tingled, pins and needles spreading up her wrist. She'd felt something like this before, three years ago, the night Morris died. They'd been investigating a series of break-ins at historic sites, following a lead to an old church in Southwark. Morris had gone ahead, checking the crypt. When Quinn found him ten minutes later, he was already cold, eyes wide with the same expression this victim wore. Heart attack, the coroner said. Thirty-eight years old, fit as an ox, dead from heart failure. The compass needle had swung back toward the body. Not quite pointing at it, but toward the space where it lay. Or through it, toward something else. Quinn turned to Patel. "I want this entire station processed. Every inch, both platforms, the tunnels within a hundred meters. And I want to know who owns this compass." "What are we looking for?" Good question. Evidence of what? She thought of Morris, of his cold hand in hers, of the way the case had been closed so quickly. Thought of the symbols on the wall, the impossible chill of that stone, the way her instincts screamed that something was very wrong with this scene. "Anomalies," she said finally. "Anything that doesn't fit the pattern." Patel nodded and returned to photographing the body. Quinn walked back to the wall marks, pulling out her phone to document them. The camera flash washed out the symbols, turning them into meaningless scratches. But in the torch light, they almost seemed to pulse. Her watch felt heavy on her wrist. She checked it without thinking: half past seven. Sunrise soon, not that it mattered down here in the dark. The anonymous tipster had wanted her to see this. Had known she'd understand, or at least suspect. Someone was leaving her a trail of breadcrumbs, and she was finally beginning to see where they might lead.