Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ1ARVQ17DFTMN02PM3MST

Detective Harlow Quinn knelt beside the chalk outline, her knees creaking against the damp platform of the abandoned Underground station. The body was gone, but dark stains remained on the crumbling tiles, forming patterns that defied natural blood spatter. The forensics team packed their equipment, their torches creating dancing shadows across the curved walls. The station had been sealed off for decades, yet someone had found their way in – and out. "Cause of death seems straightforward enough." Detective Sergeant Webb shuffled through his notes. "Blunt force trauma to the head. Probably fell onto the tracks, hit his head on the rail." Quinn traced her finger along the edge of the stain, stopping at an unusual geometric shape. "What do you make of this pattern?" "Could be from the victim's jacket. Fabric impressions, maybe?" But Quinn knew better. The markings resembled the protective sigils she'd seen etched on that brass compass in evidence storage last month – the one they'd confiscated from that redheaded researcher at the British Museum. Her hand instinctively went to her worn leather watch, thumb brushing over its familiar scratch marks. "The dust is wrong," Quinn said. "Sorry?" She stood with military precision, boots grinding against decades of grime. "Look at the platform. Really look at it." Webb's torch beam swept the ground. Years of dust and debris coated every surface, except for a clear path that led from the body to the tunnel's mouth. No drag marks, no footprints, just a pristine strip of clean tiles. "Someone cleaned up after themselves?" Webb suggested. "In an abandoned station? Why not clean the blood too?" Quinn walked the path, her steps deliberate. "And where are the entry points? All access tunnels are sealed with steel plates. We had to cut our way in." The beam of her torch caught something in the tunnel – a glint of brass nestled between the rails. Quinn pulled on a latex glove and retrieved it. A small compass, its casing dulled with verdigris. Its needle spun wildly, not settling on any cardinal direction. "Evidence missed by the sweep team?" Webb asked. Quinn pocketed the compass. "Log it as a potential lead." She'd seen its twin in the evidence locker, knew its significance. That researcher, Eva Kowalski, had been evasive during questioning about its origins. Mentioned something about a market that moved with the moon. "The victim's possessions were intact," Webb continued. "Wallet, phone, keys. Rules out robbery." "Because this wasn't about money." Quinn stood at the platform's edge, studying the tunnel's curve. "This station doesn't exist on any modern maps. How did our victim find it?" "Urbex enthusiast maybe? Those urban explorer types are always breaking into sealed stations." Quinn shook her head. "No gear, no cameras, no tools to breach the entrance. He was led here." She pulled out her phone, checking the lunar calendar. Full moon tonight. "Webb, I need you to compile a list of all sealed stations in the network. Focus on Camden area." "You think there's more?" "I think..." Quinn paused, remembering the night she lost DS Morris. The impossible angles of the shadows, the way his body had simply vanished. "I think we're looking at this wrong. We're treating it like a normal crime scene because that's what we're trained to see." "What else could it be?" Quinn's fingers brushed against the compass in her pocket. Its metal felt warm, almost alive. "Something that doesn't want to be found. Not through conventional means, anyway." She took one last look at the blood patterns. They weren't random spatters – they formed a perfect circle, with precise geometric shapes inside. Like a signature. Or a warning. "Log it as suspicious death, pending further investigation," Quinn ordered. "And get me everything we have on Eva Kowalski from the British Museum. I think it's time we had another chat." Webb nodded, but concern creased his brow. "You're not thinking this is connected to the Morris case?" Quinn didn't answer. She just stared into the darkness of the tunnel, where the shadows seemed to move against the torch light's natural flow. Some mysteries didn't want to be solved. But after three years of searching for answers about her partner's disappearance, she finally had a lead. The compass in her pocket twitched, its needle finding purpose.