Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQE3GGHVFD4PJTTN10Q7FG

The Tube tunnel stretched ahead, lit by flickering emergency bulbs that cast long, wavering shadows against the curved walls. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, the sound echoing like a slow, irregular heartbeat. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the police tape, her boots crunching on broken glass and something finer—bone fragments, maybe. The air smelled of damp concrete and something older, something that made the hairs on her arms prickle. A uniformed officer nodded as she passed, his face pale under the sickly light. "Ma'am. Scene’s just up ahead. Forensics are already swearing about it." Quinn didn’t reply. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the strap stiff with years of use, and kept moving. The abandoned station opened up before her, a cavern of peeling posters and rusted ironwork. A makeshift stall stood in the centre, its wooden frame splintered, its canvas roof slumped like a deflated lung. Around it, the usual chaos of a crime scene: techs in white suits, cameras flashing, the low murmur of voices trading theories. But something was off. The energy here wasn’t the usual tension of a fresh case. It was quieter. Almost reverent. DS Tom Whitaker stood near the stall, arms crossed, his broad shoulders blocking half the light from the portable floodlamps. He didn’t turn as she approached, but his voice cut through the hum of the room. "Took your time." Quinn stopped beside him. "Traffic on the Northern Line was murder." He snorted. "You walk. Always do." She ignored that. Her gaze swept the scene. The stall’s contents were scattered—jars of unlabelled powders, bundles of dried herbs, a few small brass objects that looked like instruments, though she couldn’t guess for what. A compass lay near her feet, its casing dull with verdigris, its face etched with symbols that weren’t any language she recognised. The needle twitched, just slightly, as if caught in an unfelt breeze. Whitaker followed her line of sight. "Weird shit, right? Drugs, probably. Some new designer high for the trust-fund kids." Quinn crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the compass. The needle jerked again, this time swinging sharply toward the far wall. She exhaled through her nose. "You see any syringes? Pills? Paraphernalia?" "Nah, but—" "But nothing." She stood, her sharp jaw tightening. "This isn’t a drug den. Look at the stall. No cash box, no scales, no burn marks from testing product. And the bones." Whitaker frowned. "What bones?" She pointed to the ground near the stall’s base. Tiny, white fragments littered the concrete, half-buried in dust. "Not human. Too small. Bird, maybe. Or—" She cut herself off. The fragments were too uniform. Too *deliberate*. A tech knelt nearby, brushing debris into an evidence bag. "Detective?" He held up a small, off-white token. "Found this under the counter. Feels like bone." Quinn took it. The surface was smooth, polished, the edges worn from handling. A symbol had been carved into one side—a crescent moon cradling a dagger. Her fingers tightened. "This isn’t just a market stall. It’s a *gate*." Whitaker’s laugh was sharp. "A gate? You’ve been reading too many case files after hours, Quinn." She didn’t look at him. Her gaze locked onto the compass again. The needle was still now, pointing unerringly at the token in her hand. "Three years ago, Morris and I raided a warehouse in Deptford. Found a room full of candles, salt circles, and a bloke who swore he’d seen *things* crawling out of the walls. Sound familiar?" Whitaker’s smile faded. "That was a cult. This is—" "A market." She turned the token over in her palm. "An underground one. Moves every full moon. Sells things you can’t buy above ground." He stared at her. "You’re serious." She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved toward the back of the stall, where the shadows pooled thickest. The floodlamps didn’t reach here, and the air was colder. Her breath fogged as she crouched, fingers brushing the concrete. The surface wasn’t just dusty—it was *marked*. Symbols had been scratched into the stone, shallow but precise. The same crescent-and-dagger from the token, repeated in a pattern that made her eyes ache if she traced it too long. Whitaker’s radio crackled. A voice cut through, tinny and urgent. "All units, be advised—we’ve got a DB in the south tunnel. Male, mid-30s, no ID. Looks like he’s been here a while." Quinn’s fingers stilled. Whitaker sighed. "Great. Just what we needed." She stood, brushing dust from her knees. "I’m going to take a look." "You’re not lead on this." "I don’t care." The south tunnel was narrower, the ceiling lower. The floodlamps here were fewer, their light swallowed by the dark. The body lay sprawled near the tracks, one arm outstretched, fingers curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp. His clothes were ordinary—jeans, a dark jacket, scuffed boots—but his face was wrong. The skin was too smooth, too *stretched*, like it had been pulled tight over the bone and then frozen there. His eyes were open, the irises black from corner to corner. Quinn crouched beside him. No rigour. No smell. Just that unnatural stillness, like he’d been carved from wax. A tech snapped photos, the flash reflecting off the tracks. "No wounds, no signs of struggle. Tox screens will take a while, but—" "But he didn’t die from anything we’d recognise." Quinn reached into the man’s jacket pocket. A wallet, a phone with a cracked screen, and—her fingers brushed something cold. She pulled it out. A bone token. Identical to the first. Whitaker’s shadow fell over her. "You’ve got that look again." She ignored him, turning the token over. The symbols matched. The compass in her other hand twitched, needle swinging toward the body, then away, then back again, as if torn between two points. She stood abruptly. "We need to check the CCTV from the station above. Now." Whitaker didn’t move. "Quinn. What the hell is going on?" She met his gaze. "Three years ago, Morris didn’t just disappear. Something *took* him. And whatever it was, it’s still here." She held up the token. "This isn’t a crime scene. It’s an *invitation*."