Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMGCPK1C6FSFWC57TKFNR5

The rain pounded the pavement, transforming the city's asphalt arteries into glistening, treacherous rivers. Detective Harlow Quinn navigated the slick sidewalks with a purpose, her gaze slicing through the downpour, searching. Her sharp jawline, emphasized by the stark lighting of a nearby streetlamp, showcased the determination that had become her trademark in the Metropolitan Police. The suspect, a man in a dark trench coat, darted ahead, his silhouette fleeting amidst the urban jungle. Harlow's eyes narrowed, her heart pounding not from the exertion but from the thrill of the chase. Eighteen years in the force hadn't dulled her instincts or the thrill of the hunt. She quickened her pace, her worn leather shoes splashing through puddles as she pursued her prey into an alleyway. The alley was a dim corridor of shadow and discarded refuse, the acrid smell of wet trash permeating the air. Harlow's hand rested on the grip of her sidearm, her fingers itching to draw it, though she held back, knowing the weapon would be of little use in these tight quarters. The man in the trench coat was nowhere to be seen ahead, but a fleeting glimpse of his retreating form was enough to keep her going. As Harlow rounded a corner, she stumbled upon a startling sight. The man she was pursuing had vanished, but a door stood ajar, its intricate carvings revealing it as an entrance to a different world. A neon green sign above it flickered, sending an electric current down her spine. The Raven's Nest. She knew this place from the grapevine—a hidden bar, a haven for the city's underground. A place to start asking questions. Harlow stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior lit by scattered candlelight and the soft glow of antique lamps. The walls were adorned with maps and black-and-white photos, each one a testament to forgotten expeditions or long-lost loved ones. The silence was broken only by the patter of rain on the roof and the quiet hum of conversation from patrons seated at tables. A man behind the bar, tall and lean with a shock of gray in his close-cropped hair, looked up at Harlow's approach. "Something stronger than rain on a cold night, miss?" She produced her warrant card, her thumb brushing the Saint Christopher medallion she kept hidden beneath her shirt. "I'm looking for a man. Goes by many names. But you might know him as Tomás Herrera." The bartender's eyebrows rose, his mannerisms shifting from casual barman to something more guarded. "Why the interest in Tomás?" He moved with the fluidity of someone who was not fond of surprises but had learned to roll with them. "He's wanted for questioning in a series of crimes involving supernatural elements," Harlow explained, her voice low and steady. She had grown accustomed to the disbelief and skepticism from witnesses. It came with the territory when you investigated the gray spaces between normal and otherworldly. A flicker of something like recognition or perhaps fear danced in the bartender's eyes. "Then you're too late. He bolted when he got wind of a visit from your kind." Disappointment coursed through Harlow, but she'd learned not to show frustration. She pulled up a stool, close enough to be intimate, but not close enough to offend. "Then I'm here for a drink. And a story." He poured her a generous measure of something dark and amber, placing it on a coaster etched with a map of London's Underground. "Tomás is a good bloke. Always had a soft spot for those everyone else labeled 'less fortunate.' Worked as a medic for the NHS until they fired him for treating patients none of the other paramedics wanted to touch. He couldn't shake his need to help. So he found a calling here, in the Nest, where the boundaries between worlds fade." She regarded him closely. "What do you mean, 'treat patients no one else wanted to touch'?" "Folks who get mixed up in the supernatural mess of London." The bartender's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fae princes with shattered fairy dust addictions. Witches caught on the wrong side of a spell. Every black-market vendor and grifter with a deal gone bad who wander up from Camden on the full moon. This place is where they come when they need someone to patch them up and ask no questions." Harlow's interest piqued. "Do you have a list of your clientele?" A wry smile played at the bartender's lips. "And risk losing my regulars? How about this: I'll point you in the right direction, but you keep Tomás out of it. Deal?" She considered the proposition. On the surface, she was going against the code, making deals that hovered in the grays between right and wrong. But this was a world where warrants and chains of evidence meant little when push came to shove. "Deal." Harlow swallowed the burning liquid in her glass, feeling it slide down her throat, warming her from the inside out. She pressed a few bills onto the counter, a payment for services rendered, not an invitation for more questions. "What do I need to access this market?" He leaned in, whispering, "Bone tokens. Half of the clientele would slit your throat for yours, so be careful. They move locations once a month, beneath the next full moon—you know, for added atmosphere. And watch out for The Veil Market's owner, Silas. He's got a temper and a pack of hellhounds." The ring of her mobile phone was like an alarm bell, shattering the quiet tension between them. She fished it out of her pocket. The display showed a familiar number. She pressed it to her ear, one eyebrow raised expectantly at the bartender. "Quinn." The voice on the other end was tinny and distant, the signal fighting against the rainy night. "Quinn, it's McIntosh from Camden. I think I've got a lead on your missing persons case with a supernatural twist." "Go on." Harlow's mind was already running ahead, piecing together the new puzzle, her earlier disappointment momentarily forgotten. "Lady—er, detective—you need to get over here. Just found a body. Male. Looks like we might have our suspect, and I reckon it's going to put your case to bed." She sighed, eyes flicking to the bartender, who was now diligently polishing glasses, his attentive gaze everywhere but on her. "McIntosh, I'm at a loose end. Give me the address, and I'll swing by." As she ended the call, she regarded the bartender with a grim smile. "Seems like one case leads to another." He chuckled. "That's the nature of the business, Detective. Come back when you need a drink. Or someone to point you in the right direction." Harlow navigated the streets back to her car, the neon green sign of the Raven's Nest fading into memory as she drove toward her next lead. The night was still young, and there were mysteries to unravel and suspects to pursue. And in the back of her mind, the growing realization that some cases defied the traditional rules of engagement, even for a detective with eighteen years of service.