Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB05EDM6038RMPHBQP699G

The air in the abandoned Tube station reeked of damp concrete and something older—something that clung to the walls like a second skin. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over the yellow tape, her boots crunching on shattered glass that glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights. The station was supposed to be sealed off years ago, but here she was, standing in the middle of a crime scene that shouldn’t exist. DS Morris would’ve hated this. She exhaled sharply, the memory of his sharp wit and sharper instincts still raw after three years. No one had ever explained what had really happened that night in the alley behind the old theater. Just official reports about a "struggle gone wrong," a "tragic accident." But Quinn had seen the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his body had jerked like he’d been struck by something unseen. She’d felt it too—the prickle at the back of her neck, the sudden drop in temperature, the way the shadows had seemed to *move*. She pushed the thought away. Focus. A uniformed officer nodded at her as she passed. "Detective Quinn. You’re the last one here." Quinn didn’t slow. "Where’s the body?" "Over there." The officer pointed toward a cluster of flickering lanterns set up near the edge of the platform. The light cast long, wavering shadows that stretched like fingers across the cracked tiles. Quinn followed the direction, her sharp jaw set. The body was wrapped in a tarp, but she didn’t need to see the face to know it was wrong. The position was all wrong. The victim—a man, mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored suit—lay sprawled on his back, arms splayed as if he’d been thrown. But the angle of his limbs, the way his fingers were curled just slightly, like he’d been reaching for something before he died. It wasn’t the posture of a man who’d fallen. It was the posture of a man who’d been *placed*. She crouched, ignoring the way her knees protested. The ground beneath him was damp, but not from water. It was slick with something darker. She reached out, her gloved fingers brushing the edge of the tarp. The fabric was stiff, almost brittle. Like it had been treated with something. "Quinn." She looked up. DCI Vexley stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. A man who thrived on control, and yet here he was, standing in a place that defied logic. "Sir," she said, standing. "This doesn’t add up." Vexley exhaled through his nose. "You think I don’t know that? But we’ve got a witness. Said he saw two men arguing, then a flash of light. Next thing he knows, the victim’s just… there." Quinn’s eyes flicked to the shadows again. "Where’s the witness?" "Interviewing him now. But he’s shaken up. Says he didn’t see anything else." Quinn didn’t buy it. Witnesses never saw *nothing*. They saw too much. They saw things that didn’t make sense. She turned back to the body. "What’s the cause of death?" "Blunt force trauma to the skull. But there’s no weapon here." Quinn’s fingers twitched. She wanted to lift the tarp. Wanted to see the wound, the angle, the *truth* of it. But she held back. Not yet. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice steady, "I need to see the rest of the scene." Vexley hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. But we’re running out of time. The press is already sniffing around." Quinn ignored him, stepping away from the body. The platform stretched ahead, the tracks disappearing into darkness. The air hummed with something she couldn’t place—a low, almost imperceptible vibration, like the world itself was holding its breath. She moved slowly, her boots silent on the tiles. The station was eerily quiet, save for the distant drip of water and the occasional skitter of something small and quick in the shadows. She stopped at the edge of the platform, where the tracks curved into the blackness. There, half-buried in the gravel, was a small brass compass. The kind you’d find in a thrift store, except this one was different. The face was etched with sigils she didn’t recognize, and the needle spun wildly, as if searching for something just out of reach. Quinn picked it up. The moment her fingers closed around it, the needle stilled, pointing toward the darkness at the end of the platform. She looked up. Something was wrong with the shadows here. They didn’t move like shadows should. They pulsed, like living things. And at the far end of the platform, where the tracks disappeared, there was a flicker—a distortion in the air, like heat rising off pavement, but colder. Sharper. Quinn’s pulse quickened. She’d seen rifts before. Not like this. Not in a place that was supposed to be ordinary. She turned back to Vexley, who was watching her with a look she couldn’t read. "Sir," she said, her voice low, "this isn’t an ordinary crime scene." Vexley’s jaw tightened. "Quinn, if you’re suggesting—" "I’m not suggesting. I’m stating." She held up the compass. "This isn’t ours. And that thing at the end of the platform? That’s not a trick of the light." Vexley exhaled sharply. "You’re saying this is supernatural?" Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. A noise cut through the tension—a soft, rhythmic *clicking*, like bones tapping together. Quinn’s head snapped toward the sound. A figure stood in the shadows near the stairs, half-hidden in the gloom. A woman, small, with curly red hair and round glasses. Eva Kowalski. Quinn’s stomach twisted. Eva was supposed to be at the museum. She was supposed to be *safe*. Eva’s green eyes were wide behind her glasses, her freckled face pale. She held a leather satchel, her fingers twitching at her side. "Eva," Quinn said, her voice sharper than she intended. "What are you doing here?" Eva swallowed. "I—I followed you. I saw the news. I knew this was bad." Quinn’s grip tightened on the compass. "You shouldn’t have come." Eva’s chin lifted. "Someone had to make sure you didn’t miss the important parts." Quinn’s eyes flicked back to the rift. The distortion was growing, the air shimmering like heat off asphalt. And then she saw it—the way the shadows at the edges of the platform seemed to *breathe*, in and out, in and out, like lungs. Vexley cursed. "Quinn, we need to get out of here. Now." Quinn didn’t move. "Not yet." She took a step forward, her boots crunching on gravel. The compass in her hand grew warm, the sigils glowing faintly in the dim light. Eva’s voice was barely a whisper. "Harlow, what is that?" Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the rift. The air was thinning now, like the world was peeling back. And then she saw *him*—a figure standing just on the other side, his form flickering in and out of focus. Tall, cloaked in darkness, his face obscured by the hood. But his hands—his hands were wrong. Too long. Too many fingers. Quinn’s breath caught. This wasn’t a murder. This was a *summoning*. And the victim wasn’t the first.