Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0NZK3B7P5SP05XF66HT2F

The abandoned Aldwych station reeked of rust and stale air. Detective Harlow Quinn descended the frozen escalator, her torch beam cutting through darkness thick as tar. Each footstep echoed off the tiled walls, multiplying until it sounded like an army marching into the bowels of London. "Body's down on the platform." Detective Sergeant Chen waited at the bottom, his breath misting in the underground chill. "Fair warning, Quinn—this one's odd." Quinn's jaw tightened. In eighteen years on the force, she'd learned that 'odd' rarely meant anything good. The platform stretched before them, lit by portable work lamps that threw harsh shadows across cracked tiles and peeling advertisements from the 1990s. The victim lay sprawled near the platform edge. Male, mid-thirties, expensive suit. His limbs bent at unnatural angles, as if someone had rearranged him like a mannequin. "Marcus Webb, antiques dealer from Kensington." Chen consulted his tablet. "Closed-circuit cameras show him entering through the emergency exit at 11:47 last night. Alone." Quinn crouched beside the body, pulling on latex gloves. Webb's eyes stared at nothing, pupils blown wide. No visible wounds. No blood. She checked his pockets—empty except for a receipt from a Camden coffee shop, timestamped yesterday afternoon. "Cause of death?" "That's where it gets interesting." Chen shifted his weight. "Pathologist's preliminary assessment suggests cardiac arrest, but..." "But?" "His body temperature. When first responders arrived at 6 AM, he was still warm. Too warm for someone who'd been dead seven hours in this freezer." Quinn stood, studying the scene. The platform lay thick with dust, undisturbed except for Webb's footprints leading from the service corridor. A single set of tracks. "He came here alone, walked to this spot, and dropped dead?" She shook her head. "People don't just wander into abandoned Tube stations for a midnight stroll." "Maybe meeting someone? Drug deal gone wrong?" "In a three-piece suit?" Quinn examined Webb's manicured nails, his Italian leather shoes. "And look at the dust pattern around the body. See those sweeping marks? Like someone dragged something away." Chen frowned at his tablet. "Nothing on the cameras. Just Webb entering, then... nothing. Next footage shows the body." "Time gap?" "Forty-three minutes of static. Technical says it's interference, probably from the old electrical systems down here." Quinn's torch beam swept across the platform, pausing on fresh scratches in the tile near the tunnel mouth. She moved closer. The marks formed a rough circle, with symbols carved around the perimeter. Her breath caught. "Chen, get forensics to photograph these markings. Full documentation." "What are they?" She almost said she didn't know. Almost lied. But the symbols tugged at something buried deep, a memory she'd spent three years trying to forget. Morris had drawn similar marks in his notebook the night before— "Ma'am?" Chen's voice pulled her back. "You recognize them?" "Maybe." Quinn's fingers found the worn leather of her watch strap, a nervous habit she'd developed after Morris died. "Any unusual items found near the body?" "Just this." Chen produced an evidence bag containing what looked like a small compass. Brass casing green with age, its face etched with intricate patterns. Quinn's pulse quickened. She'd seen those etchings before, in Morris's final case files. The ones that made no sense. The ones she'd been ordered to forget. "Run the serial number on that compass. Check antique dealers, auction houses, private collectors. Someone will have records." "Already did." Chen scrolled through his tablet. "Here's the interesting part—it was reported stolen six months ago from a private collection in Belgravia. Owner never expected to see it again, said it was 'unique' and 'irreplaceable.'" "Who reported Webb's body?" "Anonymous tip to 999. Traced to a payphone in Camden Market." Camden. Where Webb had coffee yesterday. Where those symbols pointed, if she remembered Morris's notes correctly. Quinn's mind raced, connecting dots that shouldn't connect. "Pull everything on Webb's business. Client lists, recent transactions, financial records. And Chen?" She met his eyes. "Keep this between us for now. Something's not right here." "You think he was murdered?" Quinn looked back at the body, at the impossible angles of his limbs, the marks on the platform, the compass that shouldn't exist. Three years ago, she would have said yes. Three years ago, she believed murder was the worst thing that could happen in London's dark corners. "I think Marcus Webb found something he shouldn't have." She pocketed her torch. "And I think whoever killed him wanted us to find that compass." "Why?" The question hung between them. Quinn had learned the hard way that some questions were better left unasked. Morris had asked questions. Morris had connected dots. Morris had died screaming about things that couldn't be real. "Because someone's sending a message." She turned toward the exit. "Get a full team down here. I want every inch of this platform documented. And Chen? No one else comes down here without my authorization." "Where are you going?" "Camden Market. If our anonymous tipster used a payphone there, maybe someone saw them." Chen hesitated. "Quinn, those symbols... I've seen them before. There's a professor at University College, studies ancient languages. She might—" "No academics." The words came out sharper than intended. "We handle this in-house." As she climbed back toward street level, Quinn's mind churned. The compass, the symbols, the impossible body temperature—it all pointed to things she'd spent three years denying. Things that had cost her Morris. Things that lived in London's shadows and fed on the curious. But Webb was dead, and someone had wanted him found. Someone who knew she'd recognize the signs. Someone who was either very stupid or very confident. Quinn emerged into grey morning light, Camden's streets already filling with early commuters. She'd start with the coffee shop, then work her way through Webb's life piece by piece. Somewhere in that carefully constructed existence lay the thread that led him to die alone on an abandoned platform, clutching a compass that pointed to places that shouldn't exist. Her phone buzzed. Chen, already: "Quinn, you need to see this. Webb's appointment calendar shows a meeting yesterday. Client name: E. Kowalski." Quinn's blood ran cold. She knew that name. From Morris's files. From the case that had killed him. The game, it seemed, had begun again.