Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRDAE9R0X4PTXB7Q3AGESB

The street was silent as Detective Harlow Quinn stepped out of her battered sedan, the glow of flickering streetlights casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The abandoned Tube station lurked behind a grim wall of ivy and graffiti, a hulking scar embedded into Camden’s fabric. The air smelled faintly of rust and something darker—something unplaceable. A small crowd of uniformed officers gathered near the station’s edge; a few looked up as she approached, their faces tight with the usual mix of curiosity and caution. "Any updates?" Quinn’s voice cut through the low hum of activity. Officer Mitchell nodded, rubbing his hands over a pair of latex gloves. “Crime scene’s fresh. Entry was forced, but no sign of forced exit. Nothing stolen, no signs of struggle inside, but—” His gaze flicked toward the shadowed mouth of the underground. “Nothing else,” she prompted, tilting her head. Mitchell hesitated. “Well, the victim’s body was found near one of the tracks. He’s a local trader—name’s Marcus Bell. No ID on him, though, and the strange part is—” “Strange how?” Quinn interrupted, stepping closer to the entrance. The officer hesitated again, then pointed to a faint smear on the concrete. “Blood, but the pattern doesn’t match a typical wound. Looks more like a spill. Digestive enzymes, maybe? Or some kind of method we don’t understand.” She crouched and inspected the smear, her sharp eyes narrowing. The bloodstain was oddly shaped, more of a smear than a splash, streaked in a way that suggested one of those supernatural artifacts she’d been hearing whispers about—though nothing concrete yet. "How long’s he been here?" she asked. “Hard to say,” Mitchell admitted. “Maybe six, seven hours. No signs of anyone else around, though. No footprints, no recent activity inside the station. Just the body and this strange blood.” Quinn stood, dusting off her knees, and moved inside the station. The dim tiled hallways stretched long and dark, littered with debris and old posters peeling from damp walls. Her boots echoed quietly; the faint scent of damp and mold filled her nostrils. She fingered her leather watch absently, then spotted a thin scrape on the metal railing beside the tracks. “Anything?” her partner, DS Walker, called from behind. She shook her head, then sharpened her gaze on the tracks where the body had been found. The thing about supernatural activity was that it often left clues others dismissed or failed to see. Her eyes drifted to the edges of the platform, where faint scuffs marred the concrete. Nothing obvious. No footprints, no disturbed dust. Walker stepped closer, tilting his head. “Looks like an ordinary hit-and-run, maybe some hobo or junkie got lucky a few hours ago. The blood’s odd, but it’s not super out of place, is it?” Quinn shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on the darkness at the far end of the platform. She didn’t like how easy that was to dismiss. Something wasn’t adding up. She pulled her coat tighter and stepped toward the edge of the platform, peering down the tunnel. The flicker of a distant light reflected off the curved iron walls, its flickering casting unsettling shadows. Her gaze flicked to the darkened tracks, where the faintest ripple of supernatural energy resonated—like a whispered promise she couldn't quite hear. She dug into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing against the familiar contours of the Veil Compass. Without hesitating, she pulled it out and held it close, watching the tiny needle quiver. “What are you picking up?” Walker asked. “Supernatural energy,” she answered curtly. “Not enough to say what, exactly. Just enough to make my skin crawl.” Walker smirked, crossing his arms. “So, you think it’s more than just bad luck?” She nodded, eyes narrowing as she studied the faint ripple. Her decades of experience told her not to trust the straightforward—something always lurked beneath the surface. Especially here. "Any sign of forced entry?" she asked. “None. The door was locked from the inside, just like it was before, from the looks of it. But that blood… it’s not from our guy.” “Could’ve been dragged?” she suggested, folding the compass away. “Or something else happened after?” Walker grunted. “Or someone staged it.” A faint breeze rattled the station’s boarded-up windows. Quinn’s gaze was caught by something she’d almost overlooked—brushed against the side of a cracked pillar near the tracks, a small fragment. She bent down, brushing away dust to reveal a shard of blackened glass, with faint scorch marks around the edges. “Burnt glass,” she muttered, pocketing it. “Not your typical trash.” Walker raised an eyebrow. “Think it’s supernatural?” “Most likely. Fits with the blood spillage, the energy. This whole place’s got a weird vibe today.” She turned toward the shadowed entrance, eyes sharp as a blade. Her mind raced through possibilities. Marcus Bell, local trader, dead near a supernatural rift—something had been dragged into or out of this station, and she was betting her career on the fact that the clues woven into all this pointed to more than just a street mugging. Her hand drifted to the leather satchel she carried. Inside was a handful of oddities—ancient texts, occult artifacts, and the Veil Compass. Among them, the compass was her anchor, guiding her through these dark waters. “Let’s check the tunnel again,” she ordered. “See if you can find any footprints or signs of recent movement. I’ll look up near the platform.” He nodded and moved toward the darker end. Quinn advanced cautiously, her eyes flicking back and forth, catching every flicker of movement, every shadow that stretched too long. As she approached the edge of the platform, her gaze falls upon a faint, shimmering distortion at the corner of her vision. She paused, hand resting on her hip, and focused. The ripple of supernatural energy she’d sensed earlier intensified ever so slightly. Something was waiting. Something was just beyond her sight. She lifted the Veil Compass, feeling the cold brass against her palm, the etched sigils immediately reacting to the unseen presence. The needle pointed sharply toward the tunnel, then spun briefly, indicating a disturbance. She clenched her jaw. She knew who, or what, had left these signs. And she also knew better than to ignore them. Whatever was behind this—whatever the station concealed—the truth wasn’t far away. It was waiting, whispering in the shadows of the underground, eager for her to find it. She took a deep breath, steadied her nerves, then stepped into the tunnel’s darkness.