Run: 2026-05-27-01KSMF31T3N49AMZ71S55RXCPQ

Detective Harlow Quinn tilted her camera to capture the bloody handprint on the crumbling brick wall. Another flick, and the flash illuminated the upturned stool and cracked floor tiles scattered with manila envelopes and yellowing paper. The abandoned Tube station was a graveyard of subway trestles and rusted tracks, the corrupt air thick with the scent of mildew. Dusting his hands, SOCO forensics tech Richtung looked at her from beneath his lowered goggles. "What do you make of it then, guv?" Quinn scanned the trashed office. This crime scene was...unexpected. Like finding cancer hiding in an arterial ultrasound. She popped the lid on her espresso and took a sip, printing off her images to tuck in her elbow crooks. Glancing at the yellow tape blocking the looted dossier drawer by her sneaker, she considered what it meant. When she'd pulled back the tears of the station manager in the bluish light of his security footage, he'd confirmed her worst fears. Just before closing yesterday, a couple tables had been tucked out of sight, and a who's-who of local criminal element poured in. Pink pints flowing, eyebrows raised and voices low, they swapped sacks and chips, business conducted in plain sight. But then at 10:00 sharp, the camera had glitched, white noise fuzzing the picture. By 11, the station emptied, the tables scraped back, and only the crushed goblets left the wild rumpus; as if they'd been guests to nothing more than a raucous pub night. Except for this new crime center here under the Eston Place escalator, splattered with black-candled wax and reeking of money. Quinn's money was on an occult black market operating under her nose, and that seat covered with talcum was the cardman's chair. But more than that, she breathed in, there was something seriously supernatural swirling in the ether. Their not-dconsult dismissed, Quinn let her captain, jabbed thumbprints across his phone, wait for Clingmans as he hunched there over the éclat's tablet at the crime tape. Warren was a developer and a gamester, late 30s with a poor man's Porshe. Put him in the same room with an otaku and his madra, he'd wiggle in and still play 'em for cecks. Warren jogged up and bumped hands with Richt, wrapped his tweed tie around his fist while Quinn massaged her eyes. "So what is this, then, Quinn? Who are you calling in, our resident psychic medium?" He rubbed his temples and sighed, drawing an 'X' in his forehead from a stacks of greasy fry wrappers. "Look, I'll let you run out this lead, yeah? But we got both law and customs gunning for this. You'll need to partner for this one, probably Roberti. And day report and proceed accordingly. No freakshows, hear?" She narrowed her eyes and tightened her fists, staring at Warren who was explaining. "Yeah, well you explain why this crime scene shows evidence of an occult ritual, but no sign of an actual body or bloodstains. And who's Roberti?" "Ah, so you're taking that track then, huh?" Warren rolled his eyes and flicked his crape hat brim. "Roberti's a new blood period on sifting through the occult in art for the museum." DJed thumbprint, he pocketed and uploaded the prints, gave Quinn a reproving look and stuffed his clipboard. "Right, so let me get this straight. We've got a crime scene that all but screams black magic, and you're telling me I need to partner with some occult consult from the art department?" Quinn shook her head, disbelief seeping in. "I don't know, captain. This feels like an episode of Scooby Doo more than an actual police investigation." But Quinn knew the game was changing. The game was watching back. She looked at her watch - 14:00, she'd best limp on in to the ME and see what Kip had cooked up, phone in hand, already on course for the morgue, the mess he'd made of the file and the shoddy fresh instagram photos locked in her father's camera. Warren had spoken. Quinn knew what she needed to do. This weighed like a lasso 'round her neck, though. The magics and mysteries crowd. A panted hesitation, caught in her throat. Her mind raced, turning in scrutiny like a fingerprint. The bloodstains. The wax and the glasses. She stared at the game board. Quiet news break, though, dog and pony show. Bolstering the case. Could it have been a part of an occult ritual? If so, what kind of ritual? Who were these people and what did they want? Quinn swallowed and braced, thinking harder. He looked up from his phone and smirked. "Either way, you're gonna have to play nice with the experts, Quinn. They're the big dogs on the supernatural food chain, remember? Oh, and don't forget to send me a post-mortem, yeah? Wouldn't want no skeletons in the closet, now would we?" Quinn's shoulders slacked, defeated. Christ almighty, why did it have to be Eva, her colleague from art history? Of course she'd be hauled in. Fucking figures. Eva, with her penchant for all things witchy and woo-woo. Always talking about her esoteric books and Magic the Gathering. Quinn's jaw tightened. If she had to hear about her guide on toldra ornijo or lintomas threadskra one more goddamn time, she'd... She'd what? Swear on the fucking raz? Pin the talcman's hands on Leary's card and crush it? No, that wouldn't help. Eva was the driven expert, she supposed. She sighed, resigning herself to the task at hand.