Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX2VKE81W2NXVFYAFRPH07

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like rust. Her torch cut through the dark, illuminating peeling posters of 1980s adverts, their edges curled like dead leaves. The beam caught on the body first: a man sprawled across the platform, limbs splayed as if he’d been dropped from a height. His coat—expensive wool, the kind that didn’t belong in a place like this—was splayed open, revealing a chest cavity that shouldn’t have been empty. Quinn crouched, the leather of her gloves creaking. The wound wasn’t clean. Not a knife. Not a bullet. The edges of the flesh were blackened, like charred paper, and the ribs beneath had been *pulled* apart, not broken. She exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp in the silence. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows near the ticket barrier. A figure stepped into the torchlight—DS Carter, his face pale under the station’s flickering emergency lights. He held a coffee cup in one hand, steam curling into the cold air. “Thought you’d be here before the body went stiff.” Quinn didn’t look up. “Traffic.” Carter took a sip, winced. “Bullshit. You were at the museum again, weren’t you?” She ignored him, running a gloved finger along the edge of the wound. No blood. Not a drop. Just that acrid, metallic stink, like burnt copper. “Where’s the ME?” “On her way. Said she’d be another twenty.” Carter shifted, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the platform. “You see this?” Quinn followed his gaze. A symbol had been carved into the tile near the body’s head—three jagged lines intersecting like a broken star. She’d seen it before. Not in any case file, but in the margins of Morris’s notes, scribbled in the weeks before he’d vanished. “Could be gang tags,” Carter said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Or some kind of ritual thing. You know, like those occult freaks down in Camden.” Quinn stood, her knees popping. “You think this is a cult killing?” Carter shrugged. “Stranger things, right? Guy’s got no ID, no wallet, no phone. Just… this.” He toed a small brass object near the body—a compass, its face etched with strange sigils. The needle spun wildly, then locked onto something beyond the platform, pointing into the dark tunnel. Quinn picked it up. The metal was cold, almost painfully so. The sigils pulsed faintly under her touch, like a heartbeat. She pocketed it before Carter could see. “You’re not gonna log that, are you?” he said. “Evidence.” “Bullshit. You’re hiding something.” She turned, her torchlight catching the sweat on his upper lip. “You nervous, Carter?” He swallowed. “This place gives me the creeps. Feels like we’re not alone.” Quinn didn’t answer. She wasn’t alone. She never was, not since Morris. Not since the night he’d dragged her into an alley behind a pub in Whitechapel and whispered about *things moving in the dark*. She’d laughed it off then. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She stepped over the body, her boots crunching on something small and brittle. A bone. Not human. Too thin, too *old*. She crouched again, brushing dust away. More bones, arranged in a rough circle around the corpse. Animal, maybe. But the way they were placed—deliberate. Intentional. “Quinn.” She looked up. Carter was staring at the tunnel, his coffee forgotten. The air had gone still. Too still. No drafts. No distant rumble of trains. Just silence, thick as fog. Then—a sound. A *scrape*, like metal on stone. It came from the tunnel. Carter’s hand went to his radio. “We should call this in. Get backup.” Quinn didn’t move. The scrape came again, closer this time. Something was dragging itself toward them. “Quinn,” Carter hissed. She stood slowly, her fingers brushing the compass in her pocket. The needle was spinning again, faster now, vibrating against her palm. A shadow detached itself from the tunnel’s mouth. Not a person. Not an animal. Something *else*—tall, too tall, its limbs too long, its movements jerky, like a marionette with cut strings. It paused at the edge of the platform, its head tilting. No face. Just smooth, featureless skin, stretched too tight over a skull that wasn’t quite human. Carter’s breath hitched. “What the *fuck* is that?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was watching the thing’s hands—long, skeletal fingers that ended in blackened, hooked nails. They twitched, as if testing the air. Then it *smelled* them. The thing’s head snapped toward Carter. A sound tore from its throat—not a scream, not a growl, but something in between, a noise that made Quinn’s teeth ache. Carter fumbled for his baton. “Quinn, *do something*!” She didn’t. She was too busy watching the compass. The needle had stopped spinning. It pointed straight at the thing. And the thing pointed back.