Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPBCEZC6D1TMZK369VMYNK

The air in the abandoned Tube station was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something older—something that made the hairs on Harlow Quinn’s arms prickle. Her torch cut a sharp beam through the gloom, illuminating graffiti-scarred walls and the occasional glint of broken glass. The crime scene tape fluttered weakly in the draft that slithered up from the tracks, as if the tunnel itself were breathing. She stepped carefully over the rusted rails, her boots making no sound. Eighteen years on the force had taught her how to move like a shadow when she needed to. The other detectives milled about, their voices echoing too loudly in the cavernous space, but Harlow ignored them. Her focus was on the body. It lay sprawled near the platform’s edge, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something—or someone—just out of grasp. The victim was male, mid-thirties, dressed in a rumpled suit that had seen better days. His tie was loose, his shirt collar stained with something dark. Blood, obviously. But the wound at his throat wasn’t what held her attention. It was the *absence* of blood on the ground. Harlow crouched, the knees of her trousers brushing against the gritty floor. The beam of her torch played over the man’s face—pale, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a silent scream. His skin had an odd, waxy sheen, like he’d been drained of more than just blood. She reached out, hesitated, then pressed two fingers to his neck. Cold. Too cold for a fresh corpse. “You’re wasting your time, Quinn.” She didn’t look up. “Go away, Evans.” Detective Constable Tom Evans loomed over her shoulder, his breath smelling faintly of coffee and stale cigarettes. “Coroner’s already called it. Exsanguination, probably a mugging gone wrong. Guy’s wallet’s missing, watch is gone—” “His *shoes* are gone,” Harlow muttered. Evans blinked. “What?” She gestured with her torch. “Look at his feet. No shoes. No socks. Just… gone.” She shifted the beam to the platform. “And no drag marks. No scuffle. If this was a mugging, where’s the struggle? Where’s the *blood*?” Evans exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so exasperated. “Maybe the perp cleaned up. Or maybe the vic was already dead when he was dumped here.” Harlow stood, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension knotting between them. “Then where’s the livor mortis? He’s too pale, too *dry*. This isn’t just blood loss.” She turned, sweeping her torch along the walls. The graffiti here was different—symbols, not tags. Sharp, angular marks etched into the concrete with something that had bitten deep. “This place isn’t just abandoned. It’s *used*.” Evans crossed his arms. “Used by junkies and squatters, yeah. You’re seeing ghosts, Quinn.” She ignored him, stepping closer to the wall. The symbols were familiar, though she couldn’t place why. Like something from a dream she’d had as a child—something she’d tried to forget. Her fingers twitched at her side. Three years ago, she’d stood in another tunnel, another crime scene, her partner’s body twisted in a way that defied physics, his eyes blackened like bruised fruit. The case had been buried before she could dig too deep. *Unexplained circumstances.* Unexplained. Right. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Not from the tunnel, but from the shadows *beyond* it. Harlow turned sharply, her torch cutting through the dark. For a second, she thought she saw— Nothing. Just the curve of the tunnel, the rusted tracks disappearing into black. “You’re jumpy,” Evans said. She holstered her torch. “I’m observant.” A uniformed officer approached, holding out an evidence bag. “Found this near the vic’s hand, Detective. Looks like some kind of… compass?” Harlow took the bag, turning it over. Inside was a small brass compass, its casing dulled with verdigris, its face etched with those same damn symbols. The needle didn’t point north. It twitched erratically, as if caught between directions, then suddenly snapped toward the far end of the tunnel, where the darkness seemed to *pulse*. Her breath hitched. Evans peered over her shoulder. “Weird. Probably some junkie’s trinket.” Harlow didn’t answer. She knew what this was. She’d seen one before—in DS Morris’s effects, locked in an evidence box she wasn’t supposed to open. The same strange symbols. The same unnatural pull. The compass had been the only thing left on his body. She tightened her grip on the bag. “Evans, I want this tunnel sealed. No one in or out until forensics has gone over every inch.” He scoffed. “You’re kidding. This is a waste of resources. The brass’ll never sign off on—” “Then don’t tell them.” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Do it *quietly*.” Evans stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “You’re gonna get us both in the shit for this.” “Better than getting us both *killed*.” He didn’t argue after that. Harlow waited until he’d walked away before slipping the compass from the bag. The brass was cold against her palm, almost *alive*. The needle spun wildly for a second, then locked onto the same direction—toward the darkness at the end of the tunnel. She followed it. The air grew colder with each step, her breath misting in front of her. The torch beam weakened, as if the darkness were swallowing the light. Then she saw it: a shift in the shadows, a ripple, like heat haze but wrong. The compass needle trembled. And then— A *sound*. A whisper, just at the edge of hearing. Not a voice. Not quite. More like the echo of a voice, distorted, as if it were coming from underwater. Harlow’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew this. She’d heard this before, in the moments before Morris died, when he’d turned to her and said, *“Harlow, run.”* She didn’t run now. She stepped closer. The shadows parted. Not a doorway. Not an exit. A *rift*—a jagged tear in the air, edges shimmering like oil on water. On the other side, she glimpsed… *movement*. Shapes. A market? Stalls, maybe. Figures shifting in the dim light, their faces obscured. The scent of spices and something metallic, like old coins, drifted through. Then a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Harlow whirled, fist raised, but it was just Evans, his face pale. “Quinn, what the *hell* are you doing?” She lowered her hand slowly. “You don’t see that?” He followed her gaze, then frowned. “See what? There’s nothing there.” The rift pulsed, the whispers growing louder, almost *hungry*. The compass needle spun in her grip, then stopped, pointing directly at Evans’s chest. Harlow’s blood turned to ice. She grabbed his arm and yanked him back just as the shadows *lunged*. The rift snapped shut with a sound like tearing fabric, the air rushing in to fill the void. Evans stumbled, gaping at her. “What the *fuck*—?” “Move,” Harlow snapped, shoving him toward the platform. “Now.” They didn’t stop until they were back under the flickering fluorescents of the station’s abandoned ticket hall. Evans was breathing hard, his face slick with sweat. “Quinn, you’re scaring me.” She didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the compass. The needle had gone still, pointing at Evans’s pocket. “Give me your wallet,” she said. “What?” “*Now.*” He handed it over, eyes wide. She dumped the contents onto the floor—cards, a few crumpled bills, a photo of his kids. And a small, smooth *token*, carved from what looked like bone. Harlow picked it up. The moment her fingers touched it, the compass needle swung wildly, then locked onto the token like a hound on a scent. Evans’s face drained of color. “I—I found it. Near the body. Thought it might be evidence.” Harlow’s grip tightened. “It’s not evidence.” She met his gaze. “It’s an *invitation*.” The whispers slithered at the edges of her mind, just loud enough to hear. *Come closer.*