Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0021D8QF562RNAWEN1V2Z

The abandoned Camden Tube station reeked of stagnant water and something else—something metallic that made Quinn's teeth ache. She descended the crumbling concrete steps, her worn leather boots echoing in the hollow space. Emergency lighting cast sickly yellow pools across graffitied walls, but beyond their reach, darkness pressed in like a living thing. "Victim's name is Marcus Whitmore, forty-three, antique dealer from Bloomsbury." DS Patel emerged from the shadows, tablet glowing in his hands. "Found him about two hours ago when Transport Police were doing their monthly sweep." Quinn's sharp jaw tightened as she surveyed the platform. The victim lay sprawled near the edge, arms thrown wide, face turned toward the tunnel mouth. Blood pooled beneath his head, black in the artificial light. But something nagged at her—the position was too neat, too deliberate. "Who found him exactly?" "PC Jenkins. Said he was checking for rough sleepers." Patel adjusted his glasses, the gesture nervous. "Nothing unusual, just routine." "Routine." Quinn knelt beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene. Marcus Whitmore wore an expensive wool coat, hardly the attire of someone exploring derelict Underground stations. "What's an antique dealer doing down here, Patel?" "Could be urban exploration. These places attract all sorts." Quinn studied Whitmore's hands. Manicured nails, soft palms—not the hands of someone who crawled through abandoned tunnels for thrills. She pulled on latex gloves and gently turned his left hand. The palm bore a small circular wound, perfectly round, about the size of a ten pence coin. "Look at this." She pointed to the mark. "What does that suggest to you?" Patel leaned closer, squinting. "Puncture wound? Maybe he fell on something sharp." "Maybe." Quinn stood and walked the perimeter of the blood pool. The spatter pattern bothered her—too uniform, too contained. She'd seen enough head trauma to know blood didn't behave this way. "Have you found the weapon?" "Still looking. Could have fallen into the tunnel." Quinn's brown eyes swept the platform methodically. Near the victim's feet, partially hidden beneath a torn poster advertising long-cancelled theatre productions, something glinted. She crouched and used her pen to lift the debris. A small brass compass lay there, its surface green with verdigris. The face bore intricate etchings—symbols that definitely weren't standard navigation markings. The needle spun wildly before settling in a direction that had nothing to do with magnetic north. "Patel, come look at this." He approached, tablet forgotten. "That's odd. Why would a compass point toward the tunnel?" Quinn lifted the device carefully. The moment her fingers touched the brass casing, cold shot up her arm. For an instant, the shadows at the platform's edge seemed to writhe, reaching toward them with finger-like tendrils. She blinked and the sensation passed, but her heart hammered against her ribs. "We need to bag this as evidence." "You think it's connected to the murder?" "Everything at a crime scene is connected until proven otherwise." Quinn slipped the compass into an evidence bag, noting how the needle continued its impossible dance even through the plastic. "Tell me about the blood again." Patel consulted his tablet. "Consistent with blunt force trauma to the skull. Probably struck the platform edge when he fell." Quinn walked to the platform's edge and peered down at the tracks. The drop was significant—easily enough to cause fatal injuries. But the victim lay a good three feet from the edge. She knelt and examined the concrete lip. No blood, no scuff marks, no signs of impact. "If he fell and struck his head on the edge, where's the evidence? Where's the blood transfer?" Patel joined her, frowning. "Maybe the body shifted when he hit the ground?" "Bodies don't roll uphill, Patel." Quinn pointed to the slight incline between the platform edge and where Whitmore lay. "He'd have to defy gravity." She returned to the corpse and examined the head wound more carefully. The trauma was severe—a depression in the skull roughly the size of her palm. But the edges were too clean, too uniform. This wasn't the jagged destruction typical of concrete impact. "Patel, what do you make of the victim's clothing?" "Expensive. Well-maintained." He paused, studying the body with fresh eyes. "No dirt, no tears. His shoes are clean." "Exactly. Someone who's been exploring abandoned stations would show wear, dust, debris. Whitmore looks like he just stepped out of his shop." Quinn stood and dusted off her knees. "And there's something else." She pointed to the victim's right hand, which clutched something small and white. Using her pen, she pried open the stiff fingers to reveal a smooth piece of bone, carved with the same type of symbols that decorated the compass. "What is that?" "Good question." Quinn bagged the bone token, her mind racing. "Patel, I want you to contact the British Museum. Ask to speak with someone in their Ancient History department about symbolic iconography." "You think those markings mean something?" "I think Marcus Whitmore wasn't here by accident." Quinn surveyed the platform one final time, noting details that painted a clearer picture. "Look at the positioning. He's lying perpendicular to the platform, not parallel like you'd expect from a fall. His coat is buttoned to the neck—who does that when exploring? And that wound..." She crouched beside the head trauma again. "This wasn't caused by concrete. The depression is too smooth, too symmetrical. This was done with a tool—something heavy and rounded." "Like what?" "Like a hammer with a ball-peen head. Or something similar." Quinn stood and brushed dust from her trousers. "We're not dealing with an accidental death, Patel. This was murder, staged to look like misadventure." "But why here? Why this place?" Quinn glanced toward the tunnel mouth, where darkness swallowed the emergency lighting completely. The compass in the evidence bag continued its erratic dance, pointing steadily into that void. Whatever lay down there, it had drawn Marcus Whitmore to this forgotten station. And it had cost him his life. "That's what we're going to find out."