Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPDFY1Z6N3AYEMWMXTTMSV

The abandoned Tube station smelled of damp concrete and rust, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots scuffing against the cracked tiles of what had once been Camden Town station. The air was thick with the hum of portable floodlights, their harsh glow casting long shadows across the graffiti-scarred walls. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, its strap loose from years of use, and exhaled through her nose. "Quinn." The voice came from her right, sharp and clipped. Detective Sergeant Cole stood near the edge of the platform, his arms crossed over his chest. He was new—transferred from Manchester six months ago—and still carried the stiffness of someone who hadn’t quite settled into the rhythm of London’s underbelly. "Took you long enough." Quinn ignored the jab. She’d been at the morgue, reviewing the autopsy report of the latest victim, a man whose body had been found drained of blood, his skin stretched too tight over his bones, like parchment left too long in the sun. The case had been handed to her three days ago, and every lead had dissolved into nothing. Until now. She crouched at the edge of the platform, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The victim—a woman in her late twenties, dressed in a long coat that looked more suited for a Victorian novel than the 21st century—lay sprawled across the tracks. Her dark hair fanned out around her head like a halo, her lips parted as if she’d been mid-sentence when whatever had killed her struck. But it wasn’t the body that made Quinn’s pulse quicken. It was the object clutched in the woman’s right hand. A compass. Not just any compass. The casing was brass, tarnished with verdigris, its face etched with strange, looping symbols that made Quinn’s eyes ache if she stared too long. The needle wasn’t pointing north. It wasn’t pointing at anything. It spun lazily, as if caught in an unfelt breeze. Cole followed her gaze. "Weird, right? Found it in her hand like she was trying to use it before she died." Quinn reached into her pocket and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, snapping them into place with practiced efficiency. She leaned forward, careful not to disturb the scene, and pried the compass from the woman’s stiff fingers. The moment it left her grip, the needle stilled, pointing directly at Quinn’s chest. She frowned. Cole let out a humorless laugh. "Guess it likes you." Quinn ignored him, turning the compass over in her hands. The symbols on the face were familiar, though she couldn’t place why. She’d seen something like them before—maybe in a case file, maybe in one of those damn books Morris used to read when he thought she wasn’t looking. The ones about folklore and old gods and things that went bump in the night. She stood abruptly, the compass heavy in her palm. "Who called this in?" "Anonymous tip," Cole said. "Dispatch got a call about a disturbance down here. Uniforms arrived, found her like this. No ID, no wallet, nothing. Just that." He nodded at the compass. Quinn’s jaw tightened. Another dead end. Another body with no name, no history, no reason for ending up in a place like this. She glanced around the station, taking in the peeling posters, the rusted turnstiles, the way the shadows seemed to pool just a little too thickly in the corners. This place had been abandoned for decades. Why here? Why now? She turned back to the body. The woman’s coat was high-quality wool, well-tailored, the kind of thing you didn’t find in high street shops. The boots were scuffed but expensive. And then there was the compass. Quinn had seen enough oddities in her time on the force to know when something didn’t belong. This didn’t just *not belong*. This was *wrong*. Cole shifted beside her. "You thinking what I’m thinking?" Quinn raised an eyebrow. "That this looks like a ritual killing?" He hesitated. "I was going to say it looks like a mugging gone wrong, but sure, let’s go with ritual killing." She shot him a look. "You don’t see it? The way she’s positioned, the compass, the fact that there’s no blood—" "There’s plenty of blood," Cole interrupted, nodding at the dark stain seeping into the woman’s coat. "Not *enough* blood," Quinn corrected. "If she’d been stabbed, there’d be more. If she’d been shot, there’d be an exit wound. But there’s nothing. No defensive wounds, no signs of a struggle. It’s like she just... dropped dead." Cole rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe she had a heart attack." "At twenty-eight?" Quinn shook her head. "No. Something else did this." She crouched again, this time examining the woman’s face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but there were no visible marks, no bruising, no signs of trauma. Just a faint, almost imperceptible line around her neck, like a shadow where a necklace might have been. Quinn reached out, gently tilting the woman’s head to the side. There, just below her hairline, was a small, circular mark—no bigger than a coin. It looked like a burn, but the edges were too precise, too *deliberate*. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen that mark before. Three years ago. On Morris’s body. She stood abruptly, her pulse hammering in her throat. Cole frowned. "You alright?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the compass in her hand, at the way the needle had begun to tremble again, as if sensing something she couldn’t. Then she heard it. A whisper. Not from Cole. Not from the uniforms milling around the scene. It came from the shadows beneath the platform, a voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. *Quinn.* She spun, her hand instinctively going to the holster at her hip. The floodlights flickered, casting the station into momentary darkness before snapping back on. Nothing. No one. Cole was watching her, his expression unreadable. "You hear that?" Quinn swallowed. "Hear what?" He opened his mouth to respond, but the radio on his belt crackled to life. "DS Cole, we’ve got another one. Same MO. This one’s in the British Museum." Quinn’s blood turned to ice. The British Museum. Where Eva Kowalski worked. She was moving before she realized it, shoving the compass into her pocket and sprinting for the stairs. Cole called after her, but she didn’t stop. She took the steps two at a time, her boots pounding against the concrete, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The museum was only a ten-minute drive from here. If she hurried, she could make it in five. She had to. Because if Eva was the next target, Quinn wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. Not this time. Not ever again.