Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQCHT8D465MRA5VZQ8EAF3

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the back of the throat like rust. Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots scuffing against the gritty floor. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating graffiti-scarred walls and the occasional glint of broken glass. Not the usual haunt for a murder. A uniformed officer nodded at her, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. "Detective. Scene’s over there. DS Carter’s already—" "I see him." She didn’t slow down. DS Carter stood near the platform edge, arms crossed, his broad frame blocking most of the view. He turned as she approached, his jaw tight. "Took your time." Harlow ignored that. Her torchlight landed on the body first—a man in a tailored suit, sprawled on his back, one arm outstretched like he’d been reaching for something. His tie was still knotted, his shoes polished. Too polished for a place like this. She crouched, the leather of her watch creaking against her wrist. The victim’s face was frozen in an expression that wasn’t quite fear. More like… surprise. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, as if he’d seen something impossible in his last moments. "Cause of death?" she asked. "Coroner’s not here yet, but I’d say exsanguination." Carter gestured to the man’s chest. "No visible wounds, though. No knife, no gun, no blunt force. Just… no blood." Harlow exhaled through her nose. No blood, but the suit was damp. She reached out, pressed two fingers to the fabric. Sticky. Not water. Not sweat. She brought her fingers to her nose—copper, but something else underneath. Something sharp, like ozone after a storm. She stood, wiping her hand on her trousers. "Where’s the pool?" Carter blinked. "What?" "Blood doesn’t just vanish. If it’s not on him, it’s somewhere else." She swung her torch in a slow arc. The platform was clean. Too clean. The tracks, though—they gleamed wetly in the dim light. Not with water. With something darker. She stepped closer, toes nearly brushing the platform edge. The tracks weren’t just wet. They were *stained*. A thin, almost iridescent sheen coated the rails, catching the light like oil on water. But it wasn’t oil. Harlow pulled a latex glove from her pocket, snapped it on. She crouched again, dipped her finger into the substance. It clung to her skin, thick and cold. When she pulled her hand back, it stretched in a thin, glistening thread before breaking. Carter made a noise. "What the hell is that?" She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her coat, pulled out a small evidence bag, and scraped a sample into it. The stuff resisted at first, like it didn’t want to be contained. Then it slithered into the bag with a wet *plop*. "Right," Carter said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So. No blood on the vic, but a literal puddle of… whatever this is… on the tracks. You thinking he was moved?" Harlow sealed the bag, tucked it away. "No. Look at his shoes." Carter frowned. "What about ’em?" "Polished. Not a scuff. If he’d been dragged, they’d be marked up." She stood, her torch sweeping over the platform again. "He walked here. Or was carried. But not dragged." "Then where’s the blood?" She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet. Her light caught something near the victim’s outstretched hand. A small, metallic glint. She knelt again, careful not to disturb the body. A brass compass, no bigger than a pocket watch, lay half-buried under a scattering of dust. The casing was etched with strange, angular symbols, the needle twitching erratically, as if caught between directions. Harlow didn’t touch it. Not yet. Carter leaned in. "That’s not standard issue." "No," she said. "It’s not." She pulled a pen from her pocket, used it to nudge the compass open. The face wasn’t marked with cardinal directions. Instead, the symbols radiated outward from the centre, pulsing faintly, like they were lit from beneath. The needle spun once, twice, then settled on a point that wasn’t north. Carter whistled low. "What the hell is that thing?" Harlow didn’t answer. She’d seen something like it before. Three years ago, in DS Morris’s effects. A sketch in his notebook, tucked between case files. A compass with the same strange markings. He’d scribbled one word beneath it: *Veil*. She’d assumed it was a lead. One he’d never had the chance to follow. Until now. She glanced at the victim’s face again. Mid-forties, well-groomed, expensive watch. Not the type to wander into an abandoned Tube station for fun. His pockets were turned out—wallet, phone, a set of keys. No ID. Just a single, oddly smooth bone token, warm to the touch. Harlow’s fingers tightened around it. Carter shifted. "You’re quiet." She stood, slipping the token into her own pocket. "I’m thinking." "About what?" "About how this place isn’t just abandoned." She shone her torch down the tunnel. The walls here were cleaner than they should’ve been. No graffiti. No litter. Just… smooth. Like they’d been scrubbed. Recently. "And about how our vic didn’t just *happen* to die here." Carter followed her gaze. "You think someone brought him?" "Not someone." She turned the compass over with her pen, watching the needle jump. "Something." A beat of silence. Then Carter snorted. "Come on, Quinn. You’re not seriously—" "I’m seriously noting that there’s no blood at the scene, but our vic is drained dry. I’m seriously noting that his last expression wasn’t pain, it was *shock*. And I’m seriously noting that he was carrying this." She tapped the compass. "Which isn’t something you pick up at Argos." Carter’s jaw worked. "Fine. So he was into some weird shit. Occult, whatever. That doesn’t mean—" "It means we don’t know what we’re dealing with." She finally looked at him. "And until we do, we don’t rule anything out." He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, grudgingly: "What’s your play?" She pocketed the pen, pulled out her phone. "I’m calling in a favour. Someone who knows more about this ‘weird shit’ than we do." Carter groaned. "You’re not dragging that museum weirdo into this again." Harlow didn’t answer. She already had Eva’s number pulled up. The phone rang twice. "Eva Kowalski." "Evie. It’s Harlow." A pause. Then, cautiously: "Detective. This is… unexpected." "I need your help." Another pause. The sound of a chair scraping, a door clicking shut. "What kind of help?" Harlow glanced at the compass, the body, the strange, dark stain on the tracks. "The kind that involves bone tokens, brass compasses, and a dead man with no blood in him."