Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXREYZZRFXE23D97P4ZFJ0

The bone token clattered onto the grimy platform tiles, its hollow echo swallowed by the abandoned tunnel's darkness. Detective Harlow Quinn crouched beside the body, her weathered hands steady as she photographed the scene from every angle. The corpse lay sprawled across the threshold of what should have been a solid brick wall, but instead gaped open like a wound in the station's anatomy. "Time of death approximately three hours ago." The forensics officer shifted his weight, boots scraping against decades of accumulated grime. "Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. No defensive wounds." Quinn's brown eyes tracked the blood spatter pattern. Wrong angle. Wrong distribution. The arc suggested impact from below, not behind. She stood, her military bearing evident in the precise way she moved through the crime scene. "You're seeing this backwards, Tennison." She pointed to the fractured skull. "Look at the compression pattern. Someone didn't hit him—he fell. Hard." Tennison frowned behind his mask. "From where? The ceiling's intact." Quinn turned her attention to the impossible doorway. Beyond it stretched a corridor that shouldn't exist, lit by gas lamps that hadn't burned in Camden's tunnels for over a century. The victim's fingers still clutched something small and brass. "What's that in his hand?" "Some kind of compass." Tennison bagged it without looking closely. "Probably just pocket junk." Quinn intercepted the evidence bag, holding it up to the harsh LED lights they'd strung across the platform. The compass face bore etchings that made her vision blur if she stared too long. The needle spun lazily, pointing not north but directly at the doorway. "This isn't pocket junk." She turned the bag, watching the needle track. "It's pointing at that opening." "So he was lost down here, looking for a way out." Tennison scribbled notes. "Homeless, maybe. Lots of them shelter in the old stations." Quinn examined the victim's clothes—tailored wool coat, leather shoes that cost more than her monthly salary. His manicured nails and the faint scent of expensive cologne marked him as anything but homeless. "Check his pockets again." Tennison sighed but complied. "Wallet's gone. No identification. Just this." He produced a small leather pouch containing what looked like carved bone discs. Quinn's jaw tightened. Three years ago, Morris had been clutching something similar when they found his body. The memory hit like cold water—her partner's vacant eyes, the impossible claw marks, the way the other officers refused to acknowledge what they'd all seen. "Sir?" A constable appeared at the platform entrance. "We've got another one. Female, late twenties. Found her two levels up near the ventilation shaft." Quinn's leather watch caught the light as she checked the time. "Same injuries?" "No, sir. This one's... different. You'll want to see for yourself." The climb up the maintenance ladder left Tennison wheezing, but Quinn's breathing remained steady. The second body lay crumpled in an access corridor, red hair spilling across the concrete like spilled wine. "Jesus." Tennison covered his nose. "What's that smell?" Sulfur and ozone, with an underlying sweetness that reminded Quinn of rotting flowers. She'd smelled it once before, three years ago. The woman's body showed no obvious wounds, but her skin bore strange markings—symbols that seemed to shift when viewed peripherally. "Get photos of these marks." Quinn gestured to the constable. "Every angle. Use the UV light too." "Why UV?" Tennison pulled out his phone. "Protocol doesn't—" "Just do it." Under ultraviolet light, the symbols blazed with phosphorescent clarity. Quinn recognized some from the compass face. Others matched the carvings she'd seen in evidence photos from Morris's case—photos that had mysteriously vanished from the files. "Her satchel's missing." Quinn noted the worn marks on the woman's shoulder where a strap had rested. "But she kept this." A folded paper protruded from the victim's coat pocket. Quinn unfolded it carefully, revealing a hand-drawn map of the London Underground. But this version showed tunnels that didn't exist on any official chart. Red ink marked a location beneath Camden with a single word: "Market." "Both victims were heading somewhere specific." Quinn paced the narrow corridor. "The man had tokens and a compass. She had a map. They weren't lost—they were shopping." "Shopping?" Tennison's voice pitched higher. "In an abandoned Tube station?" Quinn studied the map again. Tonight was the full moon. If the markings were accurate, whatever operated down here would be moving soon. The brass compass in evidence pointed toward answers she'd been seeking for three years. "Call it in. I want this entire station locked down." She pocketed the map. "Nobody goes below platform level without my authorization." "What about the doorway?" "Post two officers. Nobody goes through." Tennison's phone buzzed. "Forensics found something else. The male victim had a business card in his shoe." Quinn took the offered evidence bag. The card bore only a name and address: Eva Kowalski, British Museum. The same distinctive handwriting that had drawn the map. "They knew each other." Quinn felt the pieces clicking together. "She drew the map. He had the tokens. They were working together." "To do what?" Quinn stared down the maintenance shaft toward the impossible doorway below. Whatever market operated in these tunnels, it had killed before. Morris had stumbled onto something three years ago, and now two more bodies suggested the operation had grown bolder. "To find something worth dying for." She checked her watch again. "Or worth killing to protect."