Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSYZ2A8F5WNS6Q6A60GR0Q1

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots clicking against the cracked tiles. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the graffiti-scarred walls and the single body sprawled across the tracks. "Evening, Quinn." DS Carter didn’t look up from his notepad. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows. "Bit off the beaten path for a suicide, don’t you think?" Quinn crouched beside the victim. Mid-thirties, male, dressed in a rumpled suit. No wallet, no phone. Just a small brass compass clutched in his right hand, its needle spinning lazily before settling on nothing. "Unusual place to jump," she said. "No witnesses, no note. And this—" She pried the compass free, turning it over. The sigils etched into the casing were unfamiliar, but the verdigris patina spoke of age. "This isn’t standard issue." Carter exhaled through his nose. "Maybe he was into weird shit. You know how these occult types get. Probably thought he could summon a train." Quinn ignored the jab. The body lay too neatly. No blood spatter on the tracks, no broken bones from the fall. The man’s expression was calm, almost serene. Not the face of someone who’d just hurled themselves in front of a non-existent train. She stood, scanning the platform. The station’s old signs still hung from the ceiling, their paint peeling. Camden Town. But the air hummed with something else—something electric, like the charge before a storm. Her torch flickered. "Notice anything odd about the lighting?" she asked. Carter frowned. "What, the fact that half the bulbs are busted? Yeah, real mystery." "Not the bulbs." Quinn pointed. "The shadows. They’re moving." Carter’s smirk faltered. The shadows along the platform’s edge stretched unnaturally, pooling like ink despite the lack of any obvious light source. One of them twitched. "Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba." Carter adjusted his tie, but his fingers trembled. "You’ve been working too hard, Quinn. Maybe take a holiday." Quinn stepped closer to the edge. The compass in her hand grew warm. The needle jerked, then steadied, pointing directly at the darkest patch of shadow beneath the platform. "That’s not possible," she muttered. Carter’s radio crackled. "DS Carter, we’ve got a situation topside. Possible disturbance near the Camden Lock." He hesitated, then shot Quinn a look. "You coming?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the shadow ripple, like water disturbed by a dropped stone. The compass burned against her palm. Carter sighed. "Fine. Stay here and talk to the ghosts. I’ll be upstairs." Quinn waited until his footsteps faded before kneeling again. The victim’s fingers had left faint imprints in the brass. She turned the compass over. The sigils weren’t just decorative. They were a ward. A ward against what? The shadow beneath the platform pulsed. A low, rhythmic thrum vibrated through the tracks, through her bones. The compass needle spun wildly now, a metronome gone mad. She stood, backing away. The air thickened, pressing against her skin. The torchlight dimmed, swallowed by the creeping dark. Then, a voice. "Not a suicide." Quinn spun. Eva Kowalski stood at the far end of the platform, her red curls catching the dim light. She adjusted her round glasses, fingers brushing the strap of her worn leather satchel. "Detective Quinn," Eva said. "You’re trespassing." Quinn’s grip tightened on the compass. "This is a crime scene." Eva stepped forward, her freckles stark against pale skin. "No. It’s a threshold." She nodded at the body. "He didn’t jump. He was pulled." The shadows coiled tighter. The compass seared Quinn’s palm. Eva’s voice dropped to a whisper. "And if you don’t leave now, you’ll be next."