Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPFA8AG4FKDGPYGQMPN2F5

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 yellow police tape, her boots scuffing against the gritty platform. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling posters from the 1940s—*Keep Calm and Carry On*—their edges curled like dying leaves. The air was thick, not just with dust but with the weight of something unseen, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. She exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. Three years since Morris had vanished in a case that still didn’t make sense, and now this. Another scene that smelled wrong. “You’re late.” The voice came from the shadows near the old ticket booth, where a pool of flickering fluorescent light revealed DC Tom Whitaker, his notebook clutched in one hand, the other rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Forensics are already packing up.” Quinn didn’t answer. She moved past him, her torch sweeping the platform. The crime scene photos were still taped to the wall—a young man, early twenties, splayed across the tracks like a broken marionette. His skin was gray, his lips blue, but there wasn’t a mark on him. No blood. No signs of struggle. Just… empty. “Cause of death?” she asked, though she already knew. Whitaker hesitated. “Toxicology’s not back yet, but the ME’s guessing an overdose. Some new designer shit. His pupils were blown, and look—” He pointed to a small, charred circle on the concrete near the victim’s hand. “Probably dropped his stash when he went down.” Quinn crouched, her knees popping. The circle wasn’t a scorch mark. It was too precise, the edges too clean, like something had been *placed* there and then removed. She reached into her coat pocket, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and brushed her fingers over the residue. It didn’t flake like ash. It *stuck*, slightly tacky, like dried sap. She brought her fingers to her nose—no chemical bite, no acrid tang of drugs. Just the faintest scent of something earthy. Wet soil after rain. Moss. She stood abruptly. “Where’s his bag?” Whitaker blinked. “What?” “The victim. Where’s his bag, his wallet, his *phone*?” She turned on him, her voice low, controlled. “Kids like this don’t wander into abandoned Tube stations without a reason. He was here for something. And people who OD in public spaces usually have their shit *on them*.” Whitaker shifted, uncomfortable. “Maybe he got rolled. This place is a haven for squatters.” Quinn’s torch flickered over the walls. The graffiti here wasn’t the usual tags or gang marks. It was symbols—crude, but deliberate. A circle with a line through it, repeated over and over, like a warning. Or a ward. Her watch dug into her wrist as she tightened her fist. Morris had been chasing something similar before he disappeared. A case file with too many missing pages, too many witnesses who couldn’t remember what they’d seen. “Detective?” She ignored Whitaker, stepping closer to the edge of the platform. The tracks below were rusted, but the rails themselves were *clean*. Too clean. Like something had been dragged along them recently. She knelt again, running her gloved hand along the metal. A faint groove, almost imperceptible, but there. And at the very edge, near the third rail, a tiny glint of brass. Quinn pinched it between her fingers. A fragment, no bigger than a fingernail, but unmistakable—the curved edge of a compass casing, patinated with verdigris. Her breath hitched. She knew this. Not this exact piece, but she’d seen one like it before. In Morris’s things, after he vanished. A brass compass with strange markings, the kind that didn’t point north. The kind that pointed at things that weren’t supposed to exist. “Quinn, you okay?” Whitaker’s voice was distant, muffled, like she was hearing it through water. She pocketed the fragment. “I need the full tox screen. And I want the CCTV from the station above. Someone had to have seen him come down here.” Whitaker sighed. “You’re reaching. This is just another sad kid who took too much of the wrong thing.” She turned on him, her torch casting his face in harsh relief. “Then why’s there no paraphernalia? No track marks? No *needle*?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a growl. “And why does he look like he’s been *drained*?” Whitaker’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Drained?” “Like something *took* from him.” She didn’t know why she said it. Didn’t know how to explain the cold certainty settling in her gut. But she’d seen this before. Not in any textbook, not in any training manual. She’d seen it in Morris’s last case notes, the ones the department had tried to bury. A sound echoed from the far end of the platform—a scuffle, a muffled curse. Quinn’s torch snapped toward it. A figure ducked behind a pillar, but not before she caught the glint of round glasses, the flash of curly red hair. *Eva Kowalski.* Quinn was moving before she could think, her boots eating up the distance. The beam of her torch caught the woman just as she slipped into a narrow service corridor, her worn leather satchel bouncing against her hip. “Police!” Quinn barked. “Stop right there!” Eva froze, one hand pressed against the wall like she was steadying herself. Then she turned slowly, her green eyes wide behind her glasses. “Detective Quinn.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers twitched at her side, tucking a loose curl behind her left ear. “I—I was just—” “You were just *what*?” Quinn closed the distance, her torch illuminating the freckles dusted across Eva’s nose, the way her breath came just a little too fast. “This is a crime scene. How did you even get down here?” Eva swallowed. “I work at the British Museum. I heard about the… incident. I was curious.” “Curious.” Quinn’s voice was flat. “About a dead kid in an abandoned Tube station.” Eva’s gaze flickered to the platform, then back. “I study occult history. This place… it has a reputation.” “Oh?” Quinn crossed her arms. “Enlighten me.” Eva hesitated, then pulled a small notebook from her satchel. She flipped it open, the pages filled with tight, precise handwriting. “This station was condemned in ’56 after a train derailed here. No mechanical failure. No conductor error. The train just… *vanished* between stations. Forty-three people on board. None of them were ever found.” She tapped a finger against an old newspaper clipping tucked into the pages. “*The London Evening Standard* called it a tragedy. The *Tabloid of the Strange* called it a doorway.” Quinn’s pulse thudded in her throat. “A doorway to *what*?” Eva met her gaze, unflinching. “Things that aren’t supposed to be here.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped. A rat scuttled. Quinn reached into her pocket and held up the brass fragment between them. “Recognize this?” Eva’s breath hitched. Her fingers twitched toward it, but she didn’t touch it. “Where did you get that?” “It was here. Near the body.” Quinn watched her carefully. “What is it?” Eva’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Part of a Veil Compass.” “The *what*?” “A compass that doesn’t point north.” Eva’s eyes darted to the shadows, as if expecting something to emerge from them. “It points to rifts. Places where the world is… thin.” Quinn’s grip tightened around the fragment. “And what comes through these *rifts*?” Eva didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Quinn pocketed the piece again, her mind racing. Morris had been investigating something like this. A compass. A disappearance. A case that had ended with him vanishing into thin air, leaving behind only a single, cryptic note: *They’re using the old stations.* She turned back to the platform, her torch sweeping over the symbols on the walls. Wards. Warnings. Or *invitations.* “Detective.” Eva’s voice was hesitant. “There’s something else you should know.” Quinn didn’t look at her. “I’m listening.” “The boy who died. His name was Jamie Ritter.” Eva pulled a photo from her notebook—a young man with dark hair, a nervous smile. “He was an anthropology student at UCL. Three days ago, he checked out a restricted text from the museum archives. *The Book of the Unseen Path.*” Quinn’s stomach twisted. “And?” “And it’s gone. The book. The log says he returned it, but it’s not there.” Eva’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “Jamie wasn’t into drugs. He was into *doors*.” Quinn closed her eyes. She could see it now—the pieces clicking into place like the tumblers of a lock. The missing bag. The clean rails. The compass fragment. The *symbols.* This wasn’t an overdose. This was a *sacrifice.* She opened her eyes, her gaze locking onto Eva’s. “You said this market—this *Veil* thing—moves every full moon.” Eva nodded slowly. “When’s the next one?” Eva didn’t need to check. “Three days.” Quinn turned on her heel, striding back toward the platform. “Whitaker!” she barked. “I need everything on Jamie Ritter. His laptop, his flat, his *browser history.* And get me a list of every abandoned Tube station in London.” Whitaker gaped at her. “What? Why?” Because, she wanted to say, *we’re not just looking for a killer.* We’re looking for a *door.* And if she was right, Morris had already walked through it.