Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT02B72N7BNV481NB6B88HE

Detective Harlow Quinn ducked beneath the sagging police tape, her leather watch catching on the yellow plastic. The abandoned Camden tube station yawned before her like a throat, its entrance choked with rubble and decades of grime. Her torch beam cut through the darkness, illuminating graffiti-covered tiles that hadn't seen proper light since the line closed in 1954. "Body's down on the platform." PC Matthews shifted his weight, boots scraping against broken glass. "Found him about three hours ago when some urban explorers called it in." Quinn descended the rusted stairs, each step echoing in the hollow space. The air tasted of mould and something else—copper pennies and burnt matches. At the platform's edge, forensics had already set up their lights, turning the corpse into a harsh tableau of shadows and glare. The victim lay twisted, arms splayed at unnatural angles. Male, mid-thirties, wearing what looked like an expensive suit beneath streaks of blood and dirt. His face... Quinn crouched, studying the expression frozen in death. Terror, yes, but something more. Recognition? Surprise? "Blunt force trauma to the skull." The coroner, Dr. Patel, gestured with his pen. "Multiple defensive wounds on the hands and forearms. He fought back." Quinn pulled on latex gloves and examined the man's fingers. Clean, manicured nails. No dirt beneath them despite the filthy surroundings. She checked his shoes—Italian leather, barely scuffed. "He wasn't down here long before he died." She stood, scanning the platform. "No dust on his clothes except where he fell." Matthews nodded toward a scatter of objects near the body. "Found these in his pockets. Business cards, some cash, and this." Quinn picked up the evidence bag. Inside, a small brass compass caught the forensic lights, its surface green with age. Strange symbols circled the face instead of cardinal directions. The needle pointed not north but directly at the corpse. "Ever seen anything like it?" Matthews asked. She turned the bag, watching the needle swing to maintain its bearing. "No. Have the tech boys photograph everything before—" A scuff of footsteps interrupted her. A figure emerged from the tunnel mouth at the platform's far end, hands raised. "Don't shoot! I'm supposed to be here!" Quinn's hand had already moved to her sidearm. The woman stepping into the light wore round glasses and clutched a leather satchel to her chest. Red curls escaped from beneath a knit cap. "This is an active crime scene." Quinn kept her voice level, professional. "How did you get past the cordon?" "I... there's another entrance." The woman's green eyes darted between Quinn and the body. "Through the maintenance tunnels. I'm Eva Kowalski. I work at the British Museum." Matthews moved to flank her. "Museum's closed this time of night." "The restricted archives never close." Eva's fingers found a curl, tucking it behind her left ear. "I got a call about... about the compass. Someone from your forensics department thought I might help identify it." Quinn glanced at Dr. Patel, who shook his head. None of his team had made that call. "Show me your identification." Eva fumbled in her satchel, producing a laminated badge. British Museum, Research Department, Archives Division. The holographic seal looked genuine enough. "Ms. Kowalski, no one from forensics contacted you." Quinn studied the woman's face. No surprise there, just a tightening around the eyes. "Want to tell me why you're really here?" Eva's gaze slid to the brass compass in its evidence bag. "Because that shouldn't exist. We catalogued the last one in 1887. They were all supposed to be destroyed." "They?" "Shadow compasses. Veil compasses." Eva stepped closer, ignoring Matthews' warning gesture. "Tools for finding... places that don't belong." Quinn felt the hair on her neck prickle. Three years ago, her partner had said something similar before he'd disappeared. Places that don't belong. She'd thought he was losing it, stress from the case getting to him. Then they'd found his body, and the autopsy had revealed things that made no sense. Things the department had buried along with DS Morris. "You're talking about the occult." She kept her tone flat, skeptical. Play the role they expected. "I'm talking about murder." Eva pointed at the compass needle, still aimed at the corpse. "That's not pointing at him because he's dead. It's pointing at what killed him." Dr. Patel cleared his throat. "The cause of death was clearly trauma from a blunt instrument—" "Look at the wounds again." Eva's voice gained strength. "The pattern. Count the strikes." Quinn did. Seven blows to the skull. Seven defensive wounds on each arm. Seven bruises forming a circle on the victim's chest, visible now that she knew to look. "Sacred numbers." Eva's fingers worried at her satchel strap. "Someone performed a ritual killing and tried to make it look random." Matthews snorted. "Come on, guv. She's having us on." But Quinn was already moving, torch beam sweeping the platform. There—scratches in the concrete that looked random until you saw the pattern. A circle, carefully obscured by debris. She kicked aside an empty crisp packet, revealing more symbols carved into the stone. "Get photos of this." She turned back to Eva. "You know what this is?" "A summoning circle. Amateur work, but functional." Eva knelt beside the markings, careful not to disturb them. "Whoever did this had just enough knowledge to be dangerous." Quinn thought of Morris again, of the last case they'd worked together. Missing persons, all found dead in abandoned places throughout London. All with injuries that didn't quite match any weapon the Met could identify. The investigation had led them to old buildings, closed stations, forgotten corners of the city where someone had carved symbols just like these. "Ms. Kowalski, I'm going to need you to come to the station for a formal statement." "I can't." Eva stood, brushing dust from her knees. "Not until after—" She checked her watch, an antique thing that looked hand-wound. "Three hours. Dawn. After that, I'm all yours." "That's not how this works." "Detective Quinn." Eva met her gaze directly. "Whoever killed this man will kill again tonight. The ritual isn't complete. Seven sites, seven deaths, seven hours from sunset to sunrise. This is number five." Quinn's radio crackled. "Control to DI Quinn. We've got another body. Abandoned warehouse in Bermondsey. Similar circumstances to your scene." The compass needle in its evidence bag swung suddenly, pointing east. Toward Bermondsey. Eva's face had gone pale. "That's six."