Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXA1ES0MR6RRJ8ZW1D4P2S

Rainwater dripped through a collapsed tile in the ceiling, splashing into a stagnant puddle near the tracks. The air reeked of mildew and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or burnt metal. Fluorescent strips flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow over the tiled walls of what used to be Camden Town station’s disused branch line. Now, it was cordoned off with yellow tape marked MET POLICE, fluttering like a trapped bird in the draft that slithered through the tunnels. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped carefully over a warped rail sleeper, her boots crunching something brittle—glass, or maybe bone. She didn’t look down. Her eyes were already scanning: the smear of soot along the wall, the way the puddle wasn’t reflecting the light right, the absence of footprints in the grime despite the CSU team having been here for over an hour. “Quinn,” came a voice thick with impatience. DS Liam Graves stood near the body, hands shoved into the pockets of his ill-fitting trench. “Took you long enough. We’ve got time of death between 0200 and 0430. Male, early thirties. No wallet. No ID. Cause of death looks like blunt force trauma—see those fractures?” He gestured toward the victim’s skull, caved in just above the left temple. “One clean hit. Professional.” Quinn didn’t answer. She circled the body, crouched low, and squinted. The man wore leather gloves, one torn at the fingertip. On his belt, a small pouch dangled—empty, its drawstring neatly severed. His jacket was high-collared, lined with something that shimmered faintly when the light shifted. “Graves,” she said, voice flat, “did anyone touch this?” She pointed at the gloves. “No. We bagged the hands. Why?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a pair of tweezers, delicately plucking a thread from the torn glove. It wasn’t cotton. It wasn’t synthetic. Thin, iridescent, almost liquid. She held it up. It caught the light like a spider’s web spun from mercury. “That’s not standard,” she said. “Could be tactical gear,” Graves offered. “Black ops? Private contractors? You know how it is—blokes with no oversight, shadier than a basement in November.” Quinn straightened, her sharp jaw clenched. She tapped her worn leather watch. 06:47. Sunrise had come and gone. The city above was waking. But down here, the air still tasted like night. “No blood,” she said. “What?” “No blood,” she repeated, stepping back, sweeping her gaze over the scene. “Blunt force trauma to the head. Skull fracture. Brain trauma. And yet—” She gestured at the ground. “There’s no pooling. No spatter. Just damp. That isn’t right.” Graves snorted. “Forensics already took samples. They said trace blood was absorbed by the substrate. Porous tile. Old station.” “Then where’s the impact pattern?” she shot back. “You hit someone that hard, force travels. Blood flies. Skull fragments. Brain matter. Not a neat little dent like he was molded that way.” “You’re splitting hairs, Quinn.” She ignored him, walking to the wall. She ran her fingers along the soot smear. It wasn’t soot. It flaked off like ash, but underneath, the tiles were etched—thin, deliberate lines forming a sigil. She’d seen something like it before. Three years ago. In the file they sealed. The one marked *Unresolved – DS Morris Case 214-X*. Her breath caught. She stepped back, scanning the platform again. No footprints. No drag marks. No tire tracks from a body being moved. And yet the body was here. Placed. Not dropped. Her eyes caught on something near the third rail—something small, brass, half-buried in the grit. She knelt, brushed it clear. A compass. But not a normal one. Small. Brass casing, verdigris creeping along the edges like mold. The glass face cracked, but the needle spun—erratically, wildly—before settling, pointing not north, but directly at the wall behind her. At the sigil. Quinn’s pulse quickened. “This wasn’t a murder,” she murmured. Graves laughed. “You kidding? Guy’s got a hole in his head!” “This was a delivery,” she said, standing slowly. “He wasn’t killed here. He was brought here. After.” “After what? Death? That’s bollocks, Quinn. You’ve been working doubles again, haven’t you? Morris would’ve said the same damn thing—” She turned on him, eyes dark. “Don’t.” Graves held up his hands. “Sorry. But come on. You’re seeing ghosts again.” She wasn’t. She was seeing patterns. She turned to the compass, held it in her palm. The needle twitched. Then spun. Then pointed to the ceiling. Above them, a shadow passed. Not a rat. Too large. Too silent. The flickering light stuttered. Then went out. For three seconds, the platform was pitch. When the lights returned, Quinn was on her feet, hand on her sidearm. Graves was pale. “Electrical fault.” “No,” she said. “Interference.” She looked around. The CSU team was gone. The tape still hung, but their gear—the kits, the lights—vanishes. “Where is everyone?” she asked, voice low. Graves checked his radio. “No signal. Nothing.” Quinn stepped toward the wall, the compass in one hand, her torch in the other. She shone it on the sigil. Now she saw it. The lines weren’t random. They formed a circle, broken at one point—the entrance. And at the center, a single word, etched in Latin. *Transitus.* Her breath fogged in the sudden cold. “This isn’t a crime scene,” she said. “It’s a doorway.” Graves scoffed. “Now you’re quoting Latin?” She turned to him. “He wasn’t carrying drugs. Or weapons. He was carrying information. Or a key. That pouch—torn from the inside. Something got out.” “Like what?” “Something that didn’t want to be found.” She looked back at the compass. The needle was steady now. Pointing at the wall. Then, faintly, a sound. Like footsteps on stone. But not from the tunnel. From the wall.