Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPC7ZG2B3FK4PTB44J8E9Y

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the back of the throat like rust. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots scuffing against the gritty floor, each step measured, deliberate. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating the graffiti-scarred walls—tags in languages she didn’t recognize, symbols that made her fingers twitch toward the cross at her throat. Not out of faith. Out of habit. “You’re late.” The voice belonged to PC Lin, a fresh-faced constable with a clipboard hugged to his chest like a shield. His torch wobbled, casting jagged shadows. “Forensics have been and gone. Said it’s all yours.” Harlow didn’t answer. She never did when the obvious didn’t warrant it. Instead, she let her gaze rake over the scene. The platform was empty save for a single object: a small brass compass, its casing etched with sigils that looked like they’d been scratched by a trembling hand. The needle didn’t point north. It pointed *down*, toward the tracks, where the rails vanished into a darkness so absolute it seemed to swallow the light. She crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the compass without touching it. The verdigris patina was unmistakable—old, but not antique. Used. The sigils weren’t decorative. They were functional. She’d seen enough occult nonsense in the last three years to recognize the stink of it. “What’s the official line?” she asked, voice low. Lin flipped a page on his clipboard. “Vandalism. Kids breaking in, messing around. The compass? Probably stolen. Some goth’s idea of a joke.” Harlow exhaled through her nose. “And unofficially?” The constable hesitated. “Unofficially? The forensics team wouldn’t go near the tracks. Said the air down there… *felt* wrong. Like static. One of ‘em swore his torch died for ten seconds, even with fresh batteries.” He lowered his voice. “And the compass? It wasn’t here when they first swept the platform. Just… appeared.” Harlow’s jaw tightened. She reached into her coat, pulled out a evidence bag, and carefully plucked the compass from the ground. The moment her fingers brushed the brass, a chill ran up her arm—not the cold of the station, but something deeper, like the memory of ice on bare skin. The needle twitched. Not toward the tracks now. Toward *her*. “Detective?” She ignored Lin, turning the compass over in her palm. The sigils pulsed faintly under her torchlight, as if reacting to her presence. Or her *attention*. Three years ago, she’d watched her partner, DS Morris, walk into a warehouse on a tip about a drug ring and never walk out. The security footage had shown nothing—just Morris stepping into a patch of shadow and vanishing. The case file was still open on her desk, a paperweight holding down the unsolved. But she’d seen the way the other detectives looked at her when she brought it up. The way their eyes flickered toward the cross at her throat, the way they whispered *conspiracy theorist* behind her back. This wasn’t vandalism. This was a *marker*. “Lin,” she said, standing abruptly. “Get me the CCTV footage from the last seventy-two hours. Not just this station—*all* the stations within a half-mile radius. And I want a list of every reported break-in, power outage, or *unexplained phenomenon* in the area for the last month.” Lin blinked. “Uh. Yes, ma’am. But—” “But nothing.” She pocketed the compass, the weight of it settling against her hip like a promise. “And Lin? Don’t mention the compass to anyone. Not yet.” She didn’t wait for an answer. The tracks called to her, that unnatural dark pulling at something deep in her chest—the same instinct that had made her trust Morris when he’d laughed off her concerns about the warehouse, the same instinct that had failed her when it mattered. She stepped onto the rails, torch beam slicing through the gloom. The air thickened the farther she went, pressing against her skin like damp wool. The temperature dropped. Her breath fogged. Then she saw it. Not a body. Not blood. But a *symbol*, carved into the wall at eye level—a circle bisected by a jagged line, the same mark she’d found scrawled in Morris’s notebook the night he disappeared. Her torchlight wavered. The symbol seemed to *breathe*, the edges shimmering like heat haze. A sound echoed behind her—the scuff of a shoe on concrete. She spun, hand going to her sidearm, but it was just Lin, his face pale. “Detective, you—you shouldn’t be down here. The forensics team said—” “I don’t give a damn what they said.” Her voice was steel. “This isn’t kids messing around. This is a *gate*.” Lin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “A… what?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. Three years of chasing ghosts, and she still didn’t have the words. But the compass in her pocket grew heavier, the needle spinning wildly now, as if sensing her proximity to something vast and hungry. A whisper slithered through the dark. Not a voice—*voices*, layered, distorted, like a radio tuned between stations. Harlow’s fingers tightened around her torch. The beam flickered. For a heartbeat, the darkness *moved*, coalescing into shapes—tall, slender figures with limbs too long, their edges blurring into the black. Then the torch steadied, and they were gone. But the cold remained. And the symbol on the wall *glowed*. Lin made a choked sound. “We need to leave. *Now*.” Harlow didn’t argue. She backed up slowly, eyes locked on the symbol, on the shifting dark. Her boot caught on a rail. She stumbled, and for a second, the torchlight swung wild, illuminating a stretch of wall she hadn’t noticed before. Words. Carved into the concrete in a script that made her eyes ache, the letters too sharp, too *wrong*. She squinted, forcing her brain to parse them: **THE VEIL THINS AT MIDNIGHT.** Her blood turned to ice. Midnight was in six hours. She grabbed Lin’s arm and hauled him toward the platform. “Get above ground. *Now*. And call for backup. Tell them we’ve got a potential hostage situation.” “Hostage? There’s no one down here!” “There will be,” she snapped. “And they won’t be human.” They clambered back onto the platform just as Harlow’s radio crackled. “Quinn, you there? We’ve got a situation topside.” The voice belonged to DS Cole, her temporary partner. “Some civvie’s kicking up a fuss, says she’s got info on the case. Claims she’s a ‘researcher.’” Harlow’s fingers twitched. “Description?” “Red hair, glasses, jumpy as hell. Says her name’s Eva Kowalski.” The name hit her like a physical blow. *Kowalski*. She knew that name. Had seen it in Morris’s notes, circled in red, next to a list of books on occult symbolism. Coincidences didn’t exist in her world. Not anymore. She turned to Lin. “Get that backup. And *lock this station down*. No one in or out.” Then she keyed her radio. “Cole, I’m on my way. Don’t let her leave.” The compass in her pocket burned against her thigh. Midnight was coming. And whatever was waiting in the dark wasn’t going to stay there for long.