Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0K43MRWVAK40ABTJWJWW5

The air in the abandoned Tube station was thick and cold, a damp weight that settled deep in the bones. It smelled of wet concrete, ozone, and something else. Something faintly acrid, like burnt sugar. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots crunched on grit as she descended the final set of stairs from the street-level access point. The beam of her torch cut a sharp, white path through the oppressive dark, scattering across curved tile walls slick with condensation. A uniformed constable nodded at her from the bottom of the steps, his face pale in the stark light. “Down here, Ma’am. Detective Miller’s already with the… witness.” Quinn raised an eyebrow. A witness? In a place like this? She moved past him, her strides long and measured, echoing in the cavernous space. The tracks had been ripped up long ago, leaving a wide, dusty trench running down the centre of the platform. On the far side, near the mouth of a pitch-black tunnel, a small pool of light illuminated the scene. DS Miller, a young detective with more enthusiasm than sense, was crouched over a shape on the ground. Standing a few feet away, hugging a worn leather satchel to her chest, was a young woman with a riot of curly red hair and round glasses that magnified wide, green eyes. She looked completely out of place, a splatter of colour in a monochrome world of decay. Quinn stopped a few metres from the body, her gaze sweeping the entire area. No other footprints but theirs in the thick layer of dust. No signs of a struggle. No discarded syringes or bottles. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the city above and a faint, rhythmic dripping from somewhere deep in the tunnels. “Miller. Report.” He stood up, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. “Ma’am. Victim is male, approximately thirty years of age. No ID. Looks like your standard Camden junkie, got his hands on a bad batch and wandered down here to die. Coroner’s on the way.” Quinn’s eyes flickered to the woman. “And her?” “Eva Kowalski. She found him. Says she’s an urban explorer, likes photographing forgotten places. Got a bit of a shock.” Miller gave her a dismissive glance. “She’s pretty shaken up.” Quinn approached the woman, her expression unreadable. “Ms. Kowalski.” The woman flinched, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous habit. “Detective.” “You were just exploring?” “Yes. I know it’s trespassing, but I… I study these places. The history. I was taking photos and I… I tripped. My torch fell and when I picked it up, I saw him.” Her voice was a low whisper, trembling slightly. Quinn studied her. The satchel looked heavy, full. The woman’s clothes were academic, not practical for urban exploration. A corduroy skirt, a woollen cardigan over a blouse. Her shoes were sensible flats, scuffed but not caked in the grime of the tunnels. “You’re a long way from the usual photo spots,” Quinn said, her tone flat. “I like the quiet ones.” Eva Kowalski adjusted her glasses. “The ones with stories.” Quinn turned back to the body. Miller’s explanation was lazy, a convenient box to tick. But the scene felt… staged. Too clean. She crouched, the worn leather of her watch strap creaking softly. The victim lay on his back, fully clothed in jeans and a hoodie. His eyes were wide open, staring at the arched brick ceiling. But it wasn’t the eyes that held her attention. It was his skin. It was taut, stretched thin over his bones, grey and desiccated like a piece of fruit left in the sun for a week. He looked like a mummy. “Bad batch, you said?” Quinn asked, not looking at Miller. “Yes, Ma’am. Fentanyl analogues, probably. Can cause rapid dehydration.” “Rapid enough to turn a man into a jerky in a matter of hours?” She gestured to the victim’s face. The skin was pulled back from the teeth in a rictus of terror, but there were no tears, no tracks of fluid on the cheeks. Nothing. Miller fell silent. He knelt again, peering closer. “Well. Maybe not that rapid. But it’s not impossible.” Quinn’s gaze fell to the victim’s outstretched hand. The fingers were curled, but not clenched. Beside them, half-hidden in the dust, lay a small object. A compass. It was made of brass, about the size of a pocket watch, with a greenish patina blooming across its casing. She picked it up with a gloved hand. The face was etched with strange, spiralling sigils that meant nothing to her. The needle inside didn’t point North. It spun lazily, then settled, pointing directly at the solid brick wall of the tunnel opposite them. “What do you make of this, Ms. Kowalski?” Quinn held up the compass. “You like stories. This one have a chapter?” Eva took a hesitant step forward, her eyes fixed on the object. “That’s… that’s not for navigation.” “No?” “It’s a Veil Compass. It’s attuned to… energy. It points to weak spots. Doorways.” Miller scoffed. “Doorways? It’s a broken toy, probably dropped by another explorer.” Quinn ignored him. She watched Eva’s face. The fear in her eyes had been replaced by a dawning, academic horror. “What kind of doorways?” Quinn pressed. “The kind between places. The… the Veil. It’s a market down here, isn’t it? Or it was. They move. Full moon.” Eva spoke quickly, her words tumbling over each other. “This man wasn’t killed by a drug. Look at the residue around his mouth.” Quinn leaned in. A fine, crystalline powder dusted the victim’s lips and chin. It wasn’t white like a chemical. It shimmered, almost iridescent in her torchlight. “It’s not a substance, not in the chemical sense,” Eva continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “It’s a byproduct. A parasitic entity latched onto him. It… it fed. Drained him. The crystallisation is the waste.” Miller stood up, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. A parasitic entity? Ma’am, she’s a crank. We’re dealing with a straightforward overdose.” “Is it?” Quinn’s voice was low and sharp. She stood, slipping the compass into an evidence bag. “Then explain this.” She pointed the torch at the dust around the body. There were no scuff marks. No drag marks. The dust was undisturbed except for the victim’s own outline. “He didn’t fall. He didn’t struggle. He was placed here, Miller. Like a statue in an exhibit.” She looked from the desiccated corpse to the blank brick wall the compass had indicated. Then she looked at Eva Kowalski, who was now pale and trembling, her hand pressed to her mouth. Three years ago, DS Morris had been found in a locked room. The official report said heart failure. But Harlow had seen him. She’d seen the same grey, desiccated skin. The same look of silent, impossible terror on his partner’s face. She hadn’t been able to explain it then. She’d buried it, filed it away as a trauma-induced hallucination. Until now. “Miller, get this scene locked down. I want a full forensic sweep. I want them to test that powder for everything known to man, and when that comes back negative, I want them to test for everything unknown to man.” “Ma’am?” “You heard me. And get Ms. Kowalski a cup of tea. She’s coming with me to the station. We’re not finished with her story.” Quinn sealed the evidence bag with a decisive snap. The needle inside was still pointing at the wall, a silent, screaming accusation against the ordinary world.