Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRHKKYWH3TP0EMJ4XSHHE5

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust. Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots clicking against the cracked tiles. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the graffiti-scrawled walls—tags that looked fresh, though the station had been sealed for decades. "Quinn. Over here." Sergeant Patel stood near the old ticket booth, his face half-lit by the flickering glow of his phone screen. He waved her over, the light catching the sweat on his brow. She adjusted the strap of her evidence bag. "What’ve we got?" "Male, mid-thirties. No ID. Found him slumped against the wall like he just sat down for a nap." Patel gestured to the body. The man’s limbs were arranged too neatly, hands folded over his stomach. His skin had a waxy sheen, lips tinged blue. "No visible wounds, no signs of struggle. Tox screen’s clean so far." Quinn crouched, her knees popping. She shone her torch over the corpse. The man’s clothes were expensive—tailored wool coat, polished leather shoes—but his pockets were empty. No wallet, no phone, not even a receipt. "You check the security feeds?" Patel exhaled through his nose. "Station’s been dead for years. No cameras, no power. Just us and the rats." Quinn’s fingers hovered over the man’s wrist. The leather of her watch creaked as she leaned closer. The skin was cold, but not stiff. Rigor hadn’t set in. "Time of death?" "ME’s on her way, but I’d say within the last two hours." She stood, brushing dust from her trousers. "That’s impossible. This place has been sealed since the nineties. No one’s been down here." Patel crossed his arms. "Unless he had a key." Quinn’s torch beam snagged on something half-buried in the grime near the body. She nudged it with the toe of her boot—a small, circular object, brass by the look of it. She crouched again, slipping on a latex glove before picking it up. The metal was warm, almost humming against her palm. Etched into its face were strange symbols, spiraling out from the center like a spider’s web. Patel frowned. "What is that?" "Compass." Quinn turned it over. The needle spun wildly, then stilled, pointing toward the far wall. "But not the kind you’d use to find north." Patel’s radio crackled. "Sarge, we’ve got something. You need to see this." They followed the voice down the platform, past the rusted husks of old vending machines. A constable stood near the edge, torchlight dancing over the tracks. Quinn’s stomach dropped. A door. Not just any door—an arched wooden thing, its surface carved with the same symbols as the compass. It stood in the middle of the tunnel wall, as if someone had simply cut a hole in reality and slotted it in. The edges were seamless, no mortar, no hinges visible from this side. Patel whistled. "What the hell is that?" Quinn stepped closer, her pulse thrumming in her throat. The air near the door shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt. She reached out, then hesitated. "Has anyone touched it?" The constable shook his head. "Looks like it’s been here a while. But the dust’s disturbed. Someone’s been through recently." Quinn’s torch flickered. The beam dimmed, then brightened, casting long shadows across the door. The symbols seemed to shift under the light, twisting like living things. Patel rubbed his temples. "Okay, new theory. This guy was some kind of urban explorer. Found this door, got curious, maybe had a heart attack when he saw what was on the other side." Quinn didn’t answer. She was staring at the compass in her hand. The needle had stopped spinning. Now it pointed directly at the door. She pocketed it. "Get a team down here. I want this door photographed, fingerprinted, the works. And find out who owns this station. There’s no way this is on any city records." Patel hesitated. "Quinn, you’re not suggesting—" "I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying this doesn’t make sense. A man dies in a sealed station with no ID, no cause of death, and a door that shouldn’t exist in his pocket?" She turned back toward the body. "There’s something we’re missing." Patel sighed. "You always say that." She ignored him, crouching beside the corpse again. The man’s coat had ridden up slightly, exposing his wrist. Quinn froze. A mark. A small, circular brand, just above the pulse point. The same spiraling symbols as the compass. Patel noticed her stillness. "What?" Quinn pulled out her phone, snapping a photo. "This isn’t a heart attack. This isn’t natural. And it sure as hell isn’t urban exploration." The compass in her pocket grew warmer. The needle twitched, then began to spin again.