Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPM3B00C47XTQ8Q4SF4CHK

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 overhead lights flickered, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the graffiti-scarred walls. Her leather watch creaked as she adjusted it, the second hand ticking with the same relentless precision she applied to every case. "Quinn, over here." The voice belonged to DS Patel, her current partner, who stood near the mouth of an old service tunnel. His dark eyes were sharp beneath the brim of his cap, but there was a tightness around his mouth that set her teeth on edge. She joined him, her gaze sweeping over the scene. A body lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Male, mid-thirties, dressed in a rumpled suit that had seen better days. The kind of man who might have been a commuter, if this station had still been in use. But Camden Town had been closed for decades, its tunnels repurposed by the city for storage, its platforms left to rot. And yet, here he was. "Time of death?" Quinn asked, crouching beside the body. The man’s skin was pale, almost waxy, but there was no blood. No visible wounds. Just a stillness that went beyond death. "ME’s on her way, but I’d say within the last two hours," Patel said. "No ID on him. Wallet’s gone, if he even had one." Quinn’s fingers hovered over the man’s jacket, careful not to disturb anything. The fabric was cold, damp from the tunnel’s perpetual chill. She turned his hand over, examining the fingers. No defensive wounds. No dirt under the nails. Just smooth, unmarked skin. "Odd," she murmured. "Yeah. No signs of struggle either." Patel crossed his arms. "Could be a mugging gone wrong. Guy gets jumped, has a heart attack, thief takes his wallet and runs." Quinn stood, brushing her palms against her trousers. "Then where’s the blood? Where’s the mess? Even if he had a heart attack, there’d be *something*." She gestured to the platform. "No scuff marks. No drag marks. No signs anyone else was here at all." Patel exhaled through his nose. "You’re reaching, Quinn. It’s late. We’re tired. Maybe he just—" "Just what? Dropped dead in an abandoned Tube station for no reason?" She turned away from him, scanning the platform again. Her gaze snagged on something half-buried in the grime near the edge of the tracks. A small, brass object, its surface dulled by time and neglect. She knelt, pulling a pen from her pocket to nudge it free. The object rolled into her palm—a compass. Not just any compass. The casing was etched with strange, looping symbols, the kind of thing you’d see in a museum, not on a dead man in a forgotten tunnel. Patel leaned in. "What the hell is that?" Quinn turned it over. The needle didn’t point north. It didn’t point anywhere. It spun lazily, as if caught in an unfelt breeze. "I don’t know," she said slowly. "But I don’t think it’s standard issue." Patel frowned. "You think this is connected?" Quinn pocketed the compass, ignoring the way the metal seemed to hum against her fingers. "I think it’s worth looking into." She stood, her mind already racing. The symbols on the casing—she’d seen them before. Not in any police file, but in the margins of an old case report. Morris’s case. Her partner’s death had been ruled an accident. A fall down a flight of stairs during a chase. But the report had mentioned something else. Something about strange markings at the scene. Something the coroner had dismissed as graffiti. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She’d let it go. Too many questions, not enough answers. But now, here it was again. She turned back to Patel. "I want this place locked down. No one in or out until forensics has gone over every inch. And I want a full background check on this guy. If he’s got any connection to the occult, I want to know about it." Patel blinked. "The *what*?" Quinn ignored him, her gaze drifting back to the tunnel. Somewhere in the dark, the compass in her pocket pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. And then, for the first time in three years, she let herself consider the possibility that Morris hadn’t just fallen. That something had *pushed* him.