Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX38Z5GK374T9N0CDHX7KB

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the back of Quinn’s throat like rusted nails. Her torch cut through the dark, illuminating peeling posters and the skeletal remains of long-dead ticket machines. The air hummed, not with the usual London grumble of traffic and voices, but with a low, resonant thrum, like a plucked wire stretched too tight. She adjusted the strap of her evidence kit, the weight of it familiar against her hip. The call had come in at 3:17 AM—*unusual activity reported beneath Camden*. No details. Just the address and a warning: *proceed with caution*. Standard for this part of the city, where the cracks between the ordinary and the unexplainable yawned wider than most. A uniformed officer stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face pale under the flicker of a dying bulb. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Detective.” “What’ve we got, Constable?” He swallowed. “Body. Male. Late twenties, maybe. No ID.” Quinn stepped past him, her boots crunching on broken glass. The platform stretched ahead, littered with the detritus of decades—crushed cans, syringes, a single, waterlogged shoe. But it wasn’t the usual squalor that made her pause. It was the *absence* of it. No graffiti. No discarded sleeping bags. No signs of the usual denizens who claimed these forgotten spaces. Then she saw him. The body lay sprawled near the edge of the platform, one arm dangling over the track like he’d been reaching for something. His skin had a waxy sheen, too smooth, too *still*. No blood. No visible wounds. Just a man in a rumpled suit, his tie loosened, his shoes scuffed but expensive. Quinn crouched, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. The torchlight caught the glint of something metallic in his hand—a small brass compass, its face etched with strange, angular symbols. The needle didn’t point north. It didn’t point *anywhere* she recognised. It twitched, just slightly, as if sensing her presence. “You see that?” she muttered. The constable shifted behind her. “See what, ma’am?” “The compass. It’s moving.” A beat of silence. Then, “Must be broken.” Quinn didn’t answer. She reached for the man’s wrist, pressing two fingers against his skin. Cold. No pulse. But something else—something *wrong*. The flesh beneath her touch didn’t yield like it should. It was too firm, too *resistant*, as if the body had been frozen mid-motion. She stood abruptly, her gaze sweeping the platform. “Where’s the pathologist?” “On her way. Traffic’s a nightmare this time of night.” Quinn exhaled through her nose. “And the scene’s been secured?” “Yes, ma’am. No one’s been down here since the call came in.” “Then who the hell moved the body?” The constable blinked. “Ma’am?” She gestured to the tracks. “Look at the dust. See how it’s disturbed? Someone dragged him *here*. But there’s no sign of a struggle. No scuff marks. No blood trail.” She crouched again, running a gloved finger along the edge of the platform. The dust came away clean, undisturbed except for a single, narrow groove—like something had been *pulled* across it. Not a body. Something *lighter*. Something *alive*. A noise echoed from the tunnel—a sharp, metallic *clink*, like a coin dropped onto stone. Quinn’s head snapped up. “You hear that?” The constable’s hand hovered over his baton. “Hear what?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped onto the tracks, her torch beam cutting through the dark. The air grew colder the further she walked, her breath fogging in front of her. The tunnel curved ahead, the walls slick with condensation. Then she saw it—a door. Not part of the original station. Newer. Reinforced steel, set into the brickwork like an afterthought. A symbol had been carved into it: a circle bisected by a jagged line, the same as the ones on the compass. Quinn reached out, her fingers brushing the cold metal. The door didn’t budge. “Detective.” She turned. The constable stood at the mouth of the tunnel, his face even paler than before. Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows—tall, lean, moving with the kind of precision that set Quinn’s teeth on edge. Detective Harlow Quinn recognised the bearing before she recognised the face. “Morris,” she said. The man—*no, not a man*, something in her gut screamed—smiled. His eyes were too dark, too *deep*, like looking into a well with no bottom. “Harlow. It’s been a while.” The constable made a choked sound. “Ma’am, I—” “It’s alright, Constable,” Quinn said, her voice steady. “This is an old colleague. Aren’t you, *Morris*?” The thing wearing her dead partner’s face tilted its head. “You always were observant.” Quinn’s hand drifted toward her holster. “What the hell are you?” Morris—*not Morris*—laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “The same thing that killed your friend back there.” He nodded toward the platform. “The same thing that’s been *waiting* for you.” Quinn’s finger tightened on the grip of her pistol. “Where’s the real Morris?” “Gone.” The thing’s smile widened. “Just like you’re about to be.” The torchlight flickered. The door behind her groaned, the sound of metal straining against unseen forces. Quinn didn’t take her eyes off the thing in front of her. “Constable,” she said, low and sharp. “Run.” The young officer didn’t need to be told twice. His boots pounded against the platform as he bolted for the stairs. Quinn didn’t move. She kept her gaze locked on the thing wearing Morris’s face, her pulse steady, her mind racing. The compass in the dead man’s hand. The door. The *wrongness* of it all. She knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in her veins, that this wasn’t just a crime scene. It was an *invitation*.