Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF3TWCRF48NHHA1G3HK5GT

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something sharper beneath—burnt ozone with an undercurrent of copper. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the tattered police tape, her boots crunching on broken tiles as she descended the hidden staircase. The echoes of dripping water and murmured voices bounced off curved walls where posters for long-closed theaters still clung in shreds. "Christ, Quinn. Took you long enough." The voice came before the man—Sergeant Yates materialized from a side passage, his fluorescent jacket too bright against the gloom. The bounce in his step suggested he'd missed the tension curdling Quinn's gut as she surveyed the scene. "Got held up at the courthouse," she lied, adjusting the worn leather watch on her left wrist. She'd been at the archives again, chasing threads about Morris's last case. Threads that kept tangling in places like this—places that shouldn't exist. Yates jerked his chin toward the platform. "Body's fresh. Male, late twenties. No ID. And before you ask—no, we've got no bloody clue how he ended down here. Maintenance crews swore these tunnels were sealed." The platform should have been pitch black, but flickering witchlights in rusted sconces revealed the sprawled corpse. Quinn crouched, her knees protesting, and peeled back the forensic sheet. The young man's face was waxy under the unnatural light, his lips slightly parted as if caught mid-sentence. No visible wounds, no lividity that matched his position. Clean hands, too—no defensive marks, nothing under the nails. "Looks like an overdose to me," Yates offered, shifting his weight. "Probably some rich kid slumming it. You know how they crawl through Camden looking for thrills." Quinn's gaze tracked upward to the platform edge. No tracks, no trains—just an empty void where the rails should have been. "Where's the kit? The needle?" "Still searching. Maybe he swallowed something." "No foam, no pupil dilation." She nudged the man's collar aside with a gloved finger. A faint mark curved behind his ear—three intersecting arcs like a brand. Her thumb twitched toward her own wrist, where the watch hid matching scars from a case she couldn't explain. A scuffle of footsteps made her turn. A petite woman in a patched wool coat stood at the base of the stairs, clutching a leather satchel to her chest. Round glasses reflected the witchlights as she froze under the combined weight of Quinn and Yates's stares. "You're not authorized—" Yates began. "Eva Kowalski, British Museum." The woman's freckles stood out against suddenly pale skin as she fumbled for a laminated badge. "The, ah, curator sent me. You found artifacts with the body?" Quinn's pulse spiked. No one had mentioned artifacts. She cut Yates off with a look. "What kind of artifacts, Ms. Kowalski?" Eva tucked a curl behind her left ear, twice, before kneeling beside the body. From her satchel, she produced a small evidence bag containing a brass compass slick with verdigris. "This was in his pocket. It's... rare. My department tracks these." Quinn took the bag. The compass needle spun lazily despite the lack of motion, its etched sigils catching the light. When she tilted it, the needle snapped rigidly toward the tunnel's darkness. Yates snorted. "GPS must be borked down here. Let's get this logged and—" "No." Quinn stood abruptly, her sharp jaw tightening. "We're securing this tunnel. No one comes in or out until CSU processes every inch." "But the overtime budget—" "Look at his shoes." She pointed to the dead man's polished loafers. No scuffs, no dust. "He didn't walk here. Someone—or something—brought him." Eva's breath hitched. The compass in Quinn's hand grew warmer. Somewhere beyond the platform, the darkness stirred like a living thing. Yates shook his head. "You're seeing ghosts, Quinn." She curled her fingers around the compass, its heat seeping through the plastic. "No," she murmured, staring at the brand behind the dead man's ear. "But someone else is."