Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVP09YBB1KMGAYKCCXWE68M

The scent of oxidized iron and stagnant water clung to the damp air of the subterranean tunnel. Harlow kept her spine rigid, her boots striking the cracked concrete platform in a steady, measured cadence. Blue and white crime scene tape formed a crude perimeter around the shadows of the abandoned Camden Tube station. Sputtering halogen work lights cast harsh, elongated silhouettes across the peeling tile walls. Harlow unbuttoned her trench coat. At five-foot-nine, she loomed over the pair of weary forensic technicians bagging debris near the yellow caution markers. She rolled her shoulder, easing a stiff muscle, before halting at the edge of the central floodlight’s halo. The victim lay suspended in a grotesque tangle of limbs against the base of a rusted support pillar. Harlow crouched. Her brown eyes tracked the violent crimson spray arcing up the curved brick ceiling overhead. Carmine droplets beaded on the soot-stained tiles like macabre condensation. She tapped a gloved finger against her sharp jaw. Blood did not fall upward without explosive force, yet the man’s abdomen showed a singular, star-shaped laceration. No exit wound existed to justify the upward geyser. The edges of the torn flesh were not ragged from a blade. They were blackened, cauterized instantly, rimmed with a pale crust of frostbite. Memories of scorched pavement and freezing fog threatened to surface. Three years. The phantom smell of ozone and burnt hair brought the ghost of DS Morris into her peripheral vision. Harlow shoved the memory into a locked mental box. "Detective Quinn." Harlow turned her head. Eva stood just outside the circle of glaring halogens, the strap of a worn leather satchel gripped tight in her pale fists. The British Museum research assistant brought a splash of civilian color to the bleak underground vault. Her curly red hair caught the artificial light, contrasting sharply with her pale, freckled complexion. At five-foot-four, she had to tilt her chin up to meet Harlow’s gaze. Harlow stood, brushing a flake of rust from her knee. "Mister Kowalski." "Eva is fine." Eva pushed her round glasses up the bridge of her nose. "The precinct called the archives. The responding officers described a collection of illicit artifacts scattered around the victim. They required a specialist's eye." Harlow swept her hand toward a canvas tarp laid out by the forensics team. "Tell me what you see, Eva. Because right now, my scene reads like a bad physics joke." Eva stepped onto the platform, her emerald green eyes darting toward the body before flicking away. She approached the scattered evidence bags on the tarp. "This man is a known entity to the museum's restricted department." Eva pointed a trembling finger at a bundle of charred manuscripts and animal skulls sealed in clear plastic. "He deals in smuggled antiquities. Grave robbing. Tomb desecration. This looks like a dispute over territory. A competitor cornered him down here during a handoff." Harlow checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. Two-fourteen in the morning. She paced a slow circle around the body, her military bearing turning her movements into a predator’s calculated prowl. "A territorial dispute." Harlow paused beneath the blood-splattered ceiling. "Did the competitor use a medieval cannon? Look at the trajectory. The blood accelerated vertically. A standard gunshot leaves splash back. A knife leaves cast-off. This impact launched the arterial spray straight up." Eva tucked a bright red curl behind her left ear. Her knuckles whitened on the strap of her satchel. "A pressurized incendiary device. Some black market dealers carry antique flares or volatile chemical compounds to destroy evidence if the authorities arrive. An accidental discharge would explain the burns and the bizarre pressure release." Harlow stared at Eva’s hand gripping the leather bag. A nervous tic. A deliberate deflection. The academic's voice remained steady, but the body language screamed evasion. "A flare." Harlow approached the corpse again, shining her penlight into the gaping wound. "Chemical accelerants do not freeze the blood inside the veins. Look at the frost on the sternum. Incendiary devices burn. They do not drop the localized temperature to sub-zero levels simultaneously." "Chemical reactions in damp environments break standard rules." Eva shifted her weight, putting herself between Harlow and a dark alcove at the end of the platform. "Underground humidity mixes with old sulfur deposits in these tunnels. It creates anomalies." Harlow clicked her penlight off. The textbook explanation sounded rehearsed. Too smooth. She bypassed Eva, ignoring the academic's sudden intake of breath, and walked toward the dark end of the platform. Shallow puddles reflected the distant halogens. "Watch your step." Eva followed close behind. "The ground is unstable." Harlow ignored the warning. Her boots crunched over shattered glass and broken tile. She swept her flashlight across the debris field. The victim had not died near the pillar. The attack happened here, in the darkest corner of the station, and the force of the blow had thrown him fifty feet backward. A glint of metal caught the beam of her light. Harlow dropped to one knee. She withdrew a pair of stainless steel forceps from her pocket and plucked the object from the muddy water. It was a heavy brass instrument, cold to the touch. A thick patina of verdigris coated the hinged casing, bleeding green into the etched metal. Harlow pried the cover open. "Do not touch the interior dial." Harlow glanced over her shoulder. Eva stood rigid, her eyes fixed on the brass object. "Why?" "It is fragile." Eva took a step forward, reaching out an empty hand. "Late Victorian. A sailor's compass, adapted for parlor tricks during the spiritualism craze. Smugglers use them as authentication pieces. It belongs in a secondary evidence bag." Harlow turned her attention back to the instrument. The face lacked standard cardinal directions. Unfamiliar, jagged sigils bordered the glass dome. Beneath the glass, a needle carved from a dark, iridescent material spun violently on a jewel bearing. It did not seek North. The needle swung in a hard arc, snapping into place. Harlow rotated her body ninety degrees to the left. The needle moved counter to her rotation, maintaining a dead lock on a solid brick wall covered in decades of grime. "Navigational." Harlow stepped closer to the wall, holding the compass flat in her palm. "It seems defective." "Magnetic fields in London's subterranean infrastructure confuse older lodestones." Eva’s voice hitched slightly. She tucked another curl behind her ear. "The Tube lines run active current right above us. It ruins the calibration." Harlow inspected the ground at the base of the brickwork. A thick layer of gray dust coated the concrete, undisturbed for years—except for a single set of frantic, scuffing footprints. The tread pattern matched the victim’s boots. The scuffs did not retreat down the platform. They faced the blank wall. "The CCTV feeds at the surface show no one leaving the Camden exit for the last four hours." Harlow ran her flashlight beam up the mortar. "Our smuggler comes down here. He stands facing a dead end. The magnetic anomaly points exactly to the spot where he stood. The blood trajectory shows he was launched backward from this exact position." "He backed into the wall." Eva retreated a step, her knuckles turning bone-white. "The attacker hit him with the incendiary device, knocking him into the pillar. Then the attacker fled down the maintenance tunnels. There are miles of uncharted tracks down here." Harlow traced the mortar lines with her gloved fingertips. The air against the brick felt abnormally cold, carrying the faint, sharp sting of ozone. The same smell lingered on Morris’s jacket three years ago. She pressed her thumb into a widening crack between two bricks. A hard object shifted loose. Harlow pulled it free and held it under the light. A small, perfectly polished disk of bone rested in her palm. The surface bore a carved insignia resembling a closed eye. Harlow looked from the bone token to the spinning needle of the brass compass, then finally to Eva. The researcher stood perfectly still, her green eyes wide behind the round lenses, her breathing shallow. The narrative of smugglers, flares, and magnetic interference crumbled under the weight of the physical evidence. The items left behind belonged to an entirely different reality. "He did not back into the wall." Harlow slipped the bone token into her pocket and held up the compass, watching the needle vibrate toward the solid brick. "And his attacker did not flee down the tracks."