Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ0GTY4P1H3MC0DQNKYMAH

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots echoing against the tiled walls. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the usual chaos of a crime scene—uniformed officers, SOCOs in white suits, the flash of cameras. "Detective Quinn." DS Carter straightened from where he'd been crouched beside the body. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up. "Thought you'd want to see this one yourself." Quinn didn't answer. Her gaze locked onto the figure sprawled across the tracks. Male, late thirties, dressed in a cheap suit. His fingers were curled into the gravel, knuckles white. But it was his face that made her stomach tighten. Eyes wide, mouth stretched in a silent scream. Not fear. Something else. "Time of death?" she asked. "ME puts it at two, maybe three hours ago. No ID yet." Carter scratched his jaw. "Looks like he fell. Or jumped." Quinn crouched, ignoring the protest in her knees. The man's shoes were scuffed, soles worn thin. No signs of a struggle. But the position of the body—arms flung out, legs twisted—didn't match a simple fall. She reached for her torch, angling the light. The beam caught something metallic near the victim's outstretched hand. A small brass compass, its face etched with strange symbols. Carter exhaled sharply. "What the hell is that?" Quinn didn't touch it. "Bag it." "Right." He hesitated. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" She stood, brushing dust from her trousers. "Which part? The fact that this station's been closed for twenty years, or the fact that our victim looks like he's been screaming at something we can't see?" Carter's mouth twisted. "I was going to say it looks like a suicide. But yeah. That too." Quinn turned, scanning the platform. The station was a relic—peeling posters, graffiti-covered walls, a ticket booth with its glass shattered. But the air hummed with something else. A wrongness. Like the moment before a storm breaks. "Where's the CCTV?" Carter shook his head. "Not here. Never was. But we've got a witness. Some homeless bloke who sleeps in the tunnels. Claims he heard shouting around midnight." "Where is he?" "Being questioned. But he's not exactly reliable. Half the time he thinks he's still in the Falklands." Quinn's torch flickered over the platform's edge. The tracks below were dark, the third rail a silent threat. She stepped closer, crouching again. The gravel was disturbed. Not just where the body lay. Further back. A drag mark? Or something else. She stood abruptly. "Get me a map of the tunnels. All of them. Including the ones that aren't supposed to exist." Carter blinked. "You think he was moved?" Quinn didn't answer. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, a habit she'd picked up from Morris. The compass in her mind, its needle spinning. Pointing. Always pointing. She turned back to the body. The man's jacket was torn at the shoulder. Not from the fall. Something had gripped him. Hard. Carter followed her gaze. "What?" Quinn crouched again, this time closer. The fabric was singed. Not with fire. With something colder. Like frost. Or something that wasn't frost at all. "Get the ME to check for burns. Chemical or otherwise." Carter frowned. "You think this is some kind of drug thing? New synthetic?" Quinn didn't look up. "I think if it was drugs, we'd have found a needle. Or a pipe. Or something." She stood, her torch beam sweeping the platform. The shadows here were thicker. Wrong. Like they didn't belong to the light. Carter shifted. "Look, Quinn. I know you've got a thing about weird cases. But this? It's a bloke who jumped. Maybe he was high. Maybe he was off his head. But it's not—" "Not what?" Quinn's voice was quiet. "Not whatever you're thinking." She turned to him. "And what am I thinking?" Carter held her gaze. "That this is like Morris. That it's something... not normal." Quinn didn't flinch. "Morris died in an alley. With a knife in his back. This man died on a Tube track. With a compass in his hand and burns on his jacket that don't match any chemical we know." Carter exhaled. "You're reaching." "Am I?" Quinn stepped closer to the platform's edge. The darkness below seemed to pulse. "Then explain the compass." Carter opened his mouth. Closed it. Quinn turned away, her torch beam cutting through the gloom. She didn't need to explain. Not yet. But she knew. The compass. The burns. The way the man's body didn't fit the fall. This wasn't a suicide. It was a warning. And it had her name on it.