Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY95P6YRZXASTYJ6RYNP7MX

The abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older, something that clung to the air like a second skin. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, her boots crunching on shattered glass. The flickering overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the graffiti-scarred walls, turning the station into a maze of half-seen threats. DS Morris’s voice still echoed in her skull—*Watch your back, Quinn. This one’s not right.* But he wasn’t here. He never was, not since the night he’d vanished three years back, dragged into something that didn’t make sense. Something *supernatural*, if the whispers were true. She exhaled through her nose, the scent of ozone sharp in her lungs. The crime scene techs moved in stiff, deliberate motions, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. A body lay sprawled near the tracks, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The coroner’s team had already bagged the evidence, but the scene itself screamed *wrong*. “You’re late,” a voice drawled from behind her. Quinn didn’t turn. “Took longer than expected.” Dr. Elias Vane leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his lab coat rumpled. A forensic pathologist with a reputation for cutting corners, but he was the best they had. “Thought you’d never show. Figured you’d be too busy chasing ghosts.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the brass compass in her pocket—the Veil Compass, stolen from some black-market dealer after her last case. It had led her here, humming like a live wire against her thigh. “Funny. You always did have a way with words.” Vane pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Body’s been here three days. No signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Just… *appears*.” Quinn crouched beside the corpse. The victim—a man in his late thirties, dressed in a tailored suit—had a single, precise puncture wound in his chest. No blood spray. No struggle marks. Just a neat, surgical hole, like something had *drained* him. “You’re saying he walked in here and died of a heart attack?” Quinn asked. “That’s what it looks like.” She traced the edge of the wound with her gloved finger. Too clean. Too *deliberate*. “And the suit? Expensive fabric. No tears, no dirt. He wasn’t working here.” Vane shrugged. “Maybe he was lost. Maybe he tripped.” Quinn stood abruptly, her gaze sweeping the station. The walls were lined with strange symbols, etched into the concrete in what looked like dried blood. Not graffiti. Not vandalism. *Markings.* “You see this?” she asked, pointing. Vane followed her finger. “Old tags. Kids, probably.” “Kids don’t carve protective sigils into subway walls.” A beat of silence. Then, quietly: “You’re saying this is supernatural?” Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The compass in her pocket pulsed. --- Eva Kowalski adjusted her glasses, her freckled fingers brushing against the brittle pages of a leather-bound tome. The British Museum’s restricted archives were supposed to be off-limits to the public, but Eva had keys. And she had questions. “You’re sure about this?” she muttered to herself, running a finger over the faded illustration—a man with hollow eyes, his chest split open like a ripe fruit. Her phone buzzed. An unknown number. *Meet me at the old Camden station. Now.* Quinn’s message was terse, but the urgency was unmistakable. Eva hesitated, then grabbed her satchel. If Quinn was digging into the occult again, she needed to be there. The Tube station was a relic, its tiles cracked, its signs long since stolen. But the air hummed, thick with something electric. Eva’s skin prickled. Quinn stood near the body, her sharp jaw set, her salt-and-pepper hair catching the dim light. She didn’t turn when Eva approached. “You’re late,” Quinn said. Eva exhaled. “Traffic.” Quinn’s gaze flicked to the symbols on the wall. “You recognize these?” Eva stepped closer, her breath catching. “Shade work. Old protection wards. But these aren’t for keeping things *out*.” “They’re for keeping things *in*,” Quinn finished. Eva nodded. “Someone was trying to contain something. Or *summon* it.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her pocket. “Then why’s it still here?” A low, rhythmic *thumping* echoed from the tunnels below. Not footsteps. Not machinery. Something *alive.* Eva’s pulse spiked. “That’s not natural.” Quinn’s eyes locked onto the compass in her hand. The needle spun wildly, then settled—pointing *down.* “Shit,” Quinn breathed. The ground trembled. Something was coming up from the dark.