Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT00NFPWP5EJ334FJ22Y04W

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like rust. Her torch cut through the dark, illuminating peeling posters advertising long-forgotten theatre shows, their edges curled like dead leaves. The air hummed, not with the usual London underground vibration, but with something else. A low, persistent thrum, like a tuning fork struck and left to vibrate against bone. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows, sharp as a blade unsheathed. DS Carter didn’t turn around, his back to her as he crouched near the body. His torch lay abandoned beside him, its beam pooling uselessly against the tiled wall. Quinn stepped over a shattered tile, her boots crunching on something brittle. She didn’t answer. Late meant she’d had time to stop at the café on the corner, to watch the steam rise from her black coffee while she flipped through the case file one last time. Late meant she’d seen the way the constable’s hands had shaken when he’d handed her the call log. *Something’s not right down there, ma’am. Not right at all.* She crouched beside Carter, her knee pressing into the cold, damp ground. The body lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs splayed like a broken marionette. A man, mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored suit that had seen better days. His tie was loosened, his shirt cuffs rolled up to the elbows. No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds. Just a single, neat puncture in the centre of his chest, dark and precise as a tailor’s pin. “No blood,” Quinn said. Carter exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been so hollow. “Not a drop.” She reached out, her gloved fingers hovering just above the wound. The skin around it was unmarred, no bruising, no tearing. Just that single, perfect hole. She leaned in closer. The air above the body shimmered, like heat rising from asphalt. She blinked, and it was gone. “You see that?” she asked. Carter didn’t look up. “See what?” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She didn’t repeat herself. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the man’s hands. His fingers were curled slightly, as if he’d been holding something when he died. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pen, and used it to pry his fingers apart. Nothing. Just the faintest smudge of something dark beneath his nails. She scraped at it with her pen, catching a flake of what looked like dried mud—or ash. “You run his prints?” she asked. “Clean,” Carter said. “No ID on him. No wallet, no phone. Just this.” He held up a small, brass compass, its face etched with strange, angular symbols. The needle spun lazily, then stilled, pointing not north, but directly at the body. Quinn took it from him, turning it over in her palm. The metal was cold, almost unnaturally so. The patina of verdigris clung to the edges, but the symbols were sharp, fresh. She’d seen enough forgeries in her time to know this wasn’t one. “Where’d you find it?” “In his hand,” Carter said. “Clutched like it was the last thing he ever held.” Quinn’s thumb traced the edge of the compass. The needle twitched, then swung wildly, pointing past the body, down the tunnel. She followed its direction with her torch. The beam caught on something glinting in the dark—a scattering of small, white objects half-buried in the grime. She stood, her boots splashing through shallow puddles as she moved closer. Bones. Not animal. Not human, either. Too small, too delicate. She crouched again, picking one up between her fingers. It was light, almost hollow. A finger bone, maybe. Or a toe. The end was jagged, as if it had been snapped rather than cut. She turned it over. Etched into the surface were the same symbols as the compass. “You see these?” she asked, holding it up. Carter didn’t move. “See what?” Quinn’s grip tightened around the bone. She stood, her torch sweeping the ground. More bones. Dozens of them, scattered like breadcrumbs leading deeper into the tunnel. She followed them, her pulse steady, her breath even. The thrumming in the air grew louder, vibrating in her teeth. Then she saw it. A door. Not a Tube station door. Not a maintenance hatch. This was something else entirely. Carved into the wall, its edges seamless, as if it had always been there and always would be. The wood was dark, almost black, and the handle was wrought iron, twisted into the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. The bones led straight to it, piling up at its base like an offering. Quinn reached out, her fingers brushing the wood. It was warm. Alive. “Quinn.” She turned. Carter stood a few paces behind her, his face pale in the torchlight. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. “You don’t see any of this, do you?” she asked. He didn’t answer. His eyes flickered past her, to the door, then back. “See what?” She exhaled sharply. “The bones. The door. The *compass*.” Carter’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “There’s no door, Quinn. There’s no bones. Just the body. Just the tunnel.” She looked back at the door. The serpent handle seemed to writhe, its iron scales catching the light. She reached for it. “Quinn, don’t—” Her fingers closed around the handle. The metal burned, searing through her glove. She gasped, but didn’t let go. The door swung open with a groan, revealing not darkness, but a market. Stalls lined a cavernous space, their awnings strung with lanterns that cast a sickly, greenish light. The air smelled of incense and something metallic, like old coins. Figures moved between the stalls—some human, some not. A woman with too many eyes turned her head, her gaze locking onto Quinn. A man with skin like cracked leather hissed, baring teeth that were too sharp, too numerous. Quinn’s breath came fast. She stepped back, her boot crushing a bone beneath her heel. The door slammed shut. Silence. She turned. Carter was gone. The tunnel stretched empty behind her, the body still sprawled across the tracks. The compass lay where she’d dropped it, its needle spinning wildly. Quinn crouched, picking it up. The symbols on its face pulsed, glowing faintly in the dark. She closed her fingers around it, her grip tight. Then she heard it. A whisper. Not from the tunnel. Not from the market. From the compass itself. *“Find me.”*