Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT019F1K92BM68EJHY2XR64

The abandoned Camden Lock tube station reeked of stagnant water and something else—something metallic that made Quinn's nostrils flare. Her torch beam cut through the darkness, revealing crumbling Victorian brickwork and the skeletal remains of railway tracks that hadn't seen a train in decades. The Metropolitan Police had cordoned off the entrance with their usual efficiency, but down here in the bowels of London, their yellow tape looked as out of place as a wedding dress in a morgue. "Bloody hell of a place to dump a body," Sergeant Phillips muttered behind her, his voice echoing off the curved walls. "Who even knows this place exists?" Quinn's worn leather watch ticked against her wrist as she checked the time—3:47 AM. The call had come in two hours ago from a group of urban explorers who'd been illegally photographing abandoned stations. Now those same explorers sat in the back of police cars above, probably regretting their midnight adventure. The body lay sprawled across what had once been Platform Two. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in expensive clothes that didn't match the location. Quinn approached with measured steps, her torch revealing details that made her jaw tighten. No obvious wounds. No blood pooling beneath him. The man's face held an expression of absolute terror, mouth frozen open in a silent scream. "What do you make of it, Detective?" Phillips crouched beside the victim, careful not to disturb the scene. "Heart attack? Overdose?" Quinn didn't answer immediately. Something glinted near the man's outstretched hand—a small brass object, roughly the size of a pocket watch. She pulled on latex gloves and lifted it carefully. A compass, but unlike any she'd seen before. The brass casing bore a green patina, and strange symbols were etched into its face instead of cardinal directions. The needle spun wildly before settling to point deeper into the tunnel. "Run his prints when we get back to the station." Quinn pocketed the compass, her military training keeping her movements precise despite the unease creeping up her spine. "Check missing persons reports from the last forty-eight hours." Phillips stood and brushed dust from his knees. "My money's on a drug deal gone wrong. Dealer brings the punter down here for privacy, something goes sideways, and our victim has a bad reaction." "Where's the dealer then? Where are the drugs?" Quinn's torch beam swept the platform methodically. "And why leave the victim's wallet untouched? There's three hundred pounds in cash still in there." The sergeant shrugged. "Maybe they got spooked. Heard someone coming and legged it." Quinn examined the walls more closely. The Victorian brickwork showed decades of water damage and neglect, but some sections looked different. Cleaner. As if they'd been recently disturbed. Her torch caught something else—scratch marks in the mortar between the bricks, forming patterns that looked almost deliberate. "Phillips, bring your light over here." The sergeant joined her at the wall, both beams illuminating what appeared to be symbols carved into the mortar. Not graffiti—too precise, too purposeful. Quinn had seen similar markings three years ago, during her last case with DS Morris. The case that had ended with Morris's disappearance and a crime scene that defied every logical explanation. "Probably just kids messing about," Phillips said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You know how these urban explorer types are—always leaving their mark." Quinn's fingers traced one of the symbols without touching it. The pattern triggered a memory she'd tried to suppress—Morris pointing to similar markings in an East End warehouse, his face pale with excitement and fear. The next morning, he was gone. No trace, no explanation. The official report listed him as missing, presumed dead, but Quinn knew better. Something had taken him. "Get the crime scene photographer down here. I want pictures of everything—the body, the walls, the entire platform." Quinn's voice carried the authority of eighteen years on the force. "And contact the Transport Museum. I want to know the history of this station, when it closed, who has access." The compass in her pocket seemed to pulse with warmth against her leg. She pulled it out again, watching the needle's erratic dance. It had stopped spinning wildly and now pointed steadily toward a section of wall that looked no different from the rest. Quinn approached slowly, her torch beam revealing what she'd missed before—a thin gap in the brickwork, barely visible unless viewed from the correct angle. "Detective?" Phillips voice held a note of concern. "You're looking a bit pale." Quinn pressed her fingers against the gap. The bricks shifted slightly, revealing that this section of wall was actually a concealed door. The symbols in the mortar weren't random vandalism—they were a locking mechanism of some kind. "We need to call this in," Phillips said, moving closer. "Whatever this is, it's above our pay grade." "No." Quinn's response was sharp, final. "Not until we know what we're dealing with." She'd made that mistake before, reporting strange evidence up the chain of command. The result had been reassignment to minor cases and whispered concerns about her mental stability. Morris had tried to warn her about going through official channels. Now Morris was gone, and Quinn suspected his disappearance was connected to the same forces behind whatever had happened here tonight. The compass needle swung again, this time pointing back toward the body. Quinn returned to examine the victim more closely, her trained eye cataloguing details Phillips had missed. The man's fingernails were clean despite the filthy environment. His shoes showed no wear patterns consistent with walking through tunnels. Most telling of all, his body temperature felt wrong—too cold for recent death, but without the rigor mortis that should have set in. "This man wasn't killed here," Quinn said quietly. "He was brought here. Already dead."