Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT03EC7KKHRSRM86X3YEKRV

Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a rhythmic, hollow plinking sound that echoed off the tiled walls of the abandoned Tube station. The air hung heavy and still, smelling of damp earth, copper, and something acrid that scratched at the back of the throat. Harlow Quinn ducked under the crime scene tape, her leather watch catching the harsh glare of the portable work lights set up near the tracks. She ignored the uniformed officer nodding at her perimeter, her focus fixed on the small group huddled around a figure slumped against an old advertising hoarding. The poster, peeling and faded, advertised holidays in Brighton—a stark contrast to the corpse cooling in the shadows. She adjusted the cuffs of her jacket, standing tall among the crouching men. Her sharp jawline tightened as she took in the scene. "Detective Quinn. Glad you could make it." DS Thorne straightened up, clicking his pen shut. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his shirt stained with sweat. He gestured to the body with a weary hand. "Victim is male, mid-thirties. No ID yet, but the suit looks expensive. Custom tailored. Looks like a robbery gone wrong, or maybe a deal turned sour. We found the wallet empty about ten yards down the platform." Harlow stepped closer, her eyes scanning the grime-covered floor. She didn't kneel immediately. "Wrong." Thorne blinked, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry?" "It's not a robbery." She walked a slow circle around the body, her movements precise, military. The victim lay on his back, arms spread as if welcoming the darkness. His chest was a ruin of dark fabric and congealed blood. "Look at the pockets, Thorne. They’re turned out, but the fabric isn't torn. A desperate junkie or a panicked thief rips, they don't perform a delicate extraction." She crouched down, resting her weight on her heels. She leaned in close to the victim’s face. The eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling of the tunnel with an expression of utter serenity. No fear. No pain. Just acceptance. " Besides, who robs someone in a ghost station? You need a bone token just to get the gate open down here. Our vic either came down here to meet someone who knows the way, or he knew the way himself." Thorne sighed, pulling out his notebook. "We're thinking gang related. Maybe a initiation, or a warning. There's that new clique moving into Camden, dealing that weird drug mix. Blue Lotus, or something." "Blue Lycaeum." Harlow corrected him without looking up. She reached into a pocket and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "And they don't kill like this." She hovered her hands over the victim's chest. The wound was a single, puncture-like tear directly over the heart. It was small, almost delicate, surrounded by bruising that looked like the petals of a flower. "Where's the weapon?" she asked. "CSU hasn't found it yet. Probably tossed in the river or carried out by the perp." "There's no exit wound. No blood spatter on the wall behind him. If someone stabbed him with enough force to pierce the heart, there would be arterial spray. Here?" She pointed to the pristine tiles. "Nothing. It’s like the blood was just drained out of him." Harlow shifted her attention to the ground beside the victim. Something glinted in the dirt, partially obscured by a discarded newspaper. She reached for it, brushing away the grime. It was a compass. Small, brass casing with a heavy patina of verdigris. The face was etched with intricate sigils that seemed to shift in the uneven light. "Looks like trash," Thorne said, peering over her shoulder. Harlow turned the object over in her palm. The leather strap was broken, the jagged edges suggesting it had been ripped from the victim's wrist. She held it flat. The needle spun wildly, lazily rotating in a full circle before snapping violently to the left. It wasn't pointing North. It was pointing directly at the dead man's chest. "It's not trash." She stood up, slipping the compass into her own pocket. "It's evidence. Have CSU sweep the area for particulates. Specifically, look for sulfur or anything that resembles ash." "Ash? In a Tube station?" "Do it." Harlow walked to the edge of the platform, looking down into the dark maw of the tunnel. A flicker of movement caught her eye—shadows that didn't align with the placement of the lights. She rubbed her thumb over the brass casing in her pocket, the metal cold against her skin. "You think this is supernatural, don't you?" Thorne’s voice dropped low, conspiratorial but uneasy. "Like the Morris case." Harlow turned slowly. Her face was a mask of calm, but her brown eyes were hard. "I think the evidence doesn't support a stabbing. I think the lack of a weapon, the location, and the victim's demeanor suggest something we aren't trained to handle." She walked back to the body, crouching one last time. She lifted the victim's left hand. The fingernails were blue, but not from lack of oxygen. It was a stain, like ink. "Check his hands for residue. And get me the coroner's report the second it lands. If there's no physical weapon recovered, we aren't looking for a man with a knife." A rustling sound echoed from the stairwell leading to the street level. Both detectives looked up. A figure hesitated in the shadows of the archway, clutching a worn leather satchel tight against her chest. Eva Kowalski stepped into the light of the work lamps, her curly red hair a chaotic halo around her face. She adjusted her round glasses, her eyes darting from Thorne to Harlow. "I... I was told this is where the incident was reported." Her voice trembled slightly, and she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear in a sharp, nervous gesture. Thorne stepped forward, his hand moving to his belt. "This is a restricted crime scene, miss. You need to leave." Harlow held up a hand, stopping him. She stared at Eva. "How did you get past the cordon, Eva?" "I know the night watchman. He's... a friend of a friend." Eva swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the body. She took a hesitant step closer. "Is that him? The courier?" "Courier?" Harlow asked. "I was supposed to meet him. He had an item for me to authenticate. From the Market." Eva looked down at her satchel. "He was late. He’s never late." Harlow felt the weight of the compass in her pocket. "What kind of item, Eva?" "Old. Dangerous." Eva looked up, her green eyes wide and serious. "He said he was being followed. Not by people. By... something else. Something that moves between the lights." Thorne laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Right. Monsters in the Tube. We've got a real job to do here, miss. Please leave." "He's not wrong, Detective." Harlow’s voice cut through the air. She looked at the body again, the single puncture wound, the peaceful expression. The shadow compass pointing at the dead man. "Thorne, secure the perimeter. No one comes in or out without my say-so." She turned to Eva, gesturing for her to step away from the prying eyes of the uniformed officers. "Tell me exactly what this courier was bringing you. And don't leave anything out." Eva glanced at the blood on the tiles, then back to Harlow. She took a deep breath. "It was a key. A bone key. He said it opened a door that shouldn't exist." Harlow nodded slowly. She pulled the brass compass from her pocket and held it out. The needle spun and locked onto Eva's satchel. "I think I found the other half of the delivery."