Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMHBQKYM517DAXHA64VB5S

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath fogged in front of her as she sprinted, her boots splashing through puddles that glowed under the sickly orange of the streetlights. Her leather watch creaked against her wrist, the second hand ticking in time with her pulse. Eighteen years on the force, and she’d never chased a suspect like this—never had one slip through her fingers so easily, only to vanish into the mouth of an alley like a ghost. She skidded to a halt at the alley’s entrance, her sharp jaw set. The rain drummed against her shoulders, soaking through her coat. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, if her intel was right—had been a blur of motion, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under the neon signs before he’d ducked out of sight. She’d seen the scar on his forearm, the way he moved like a man who knew how to run. And now he was gone. Quinn exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing around the grip of her torch. The alley was narrow, lined with overflowing bins and the skeletal remains of fire escapes. A rat scuttled past her boot, its tail flicking through the water. She stepped forward, her breath shallow, her senses dialed up to a razor’s edge. The air smelled of wet pavement and something older, something metallic and faintly sweet, like copper and ozone. Then she saw it—a flicker of movement near the far end, where the alley spilled into a wider street. A shadow, quick as a blink, darting left. Quinn broke into a run, her coat flaring behind her. She rounded the corner just in time to see Herrera slip into a doorway beneath a flickering green neon sign: *The Raven’s Nest*. She slowed, her instincts prickling. The bar was a known haunt for the city’s underbelly, but this was different. Herrera wasn’t just hiding. He was leading her somewhere. Quinn pushed through the door, the warmth of the bar hitting her like a wave. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and old paper, the walls lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs. A few patrons glanced up, their expressions guarded. A bartender with a face like weathered oak wiped a glass with a rag, his eyes tracking her as she moved. She didn’t have time for this. “Police,” she said, flashing her badge. “I’m looking for a man. Dark hair, scar on his left arm. Came in here just now.” The bartender’s gaze flicked to the back of the room, then back to her. “Haven’t seen him.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She knew a lie when she heard one. She strode past the bar, her boots thudding against the worn floorboards. The back of the room was dim, the light swallowed by shadows. A bookshelf stood against the wall, its shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes. She ran her fingers along the spines, pressing here and there, searching for the telltale click of a hidden mechanism. There. The bookshelf swung inward, revealing a narrow passage. Quinn’s pulse spiked. She stepped through, the door clicking shut behind her. The air in the hidden room was cooler, the silence heavier. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows. The walls were lined with crates, their contents hidden in the dark. And then she saw the door at the far end—a metal hatch, slightly ajar. Quinn hesitated. She was off the books here. No backup, no warrant, no idea what waited on the other side. But Herrera was getting away, and she couldn’t let that happen. Not after what happened to Morris. She pushed the hatch open. A set of rusted stairs descended into darkness. The air that rose to meet her was damp, carrying the scent of earth and something older, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She shone her torch down the steps, the beam cutting through the gloom. The walls were lined with tiles, their patterns faded and cracked. An abandoned Tube station. Quinn swallowed hard. She’d heard the rumors—whispers of a black market that moved with the full moon, a place where the rules of the world didn’t apply. The Veil Market. She took the first step. The stairs creaked under her weight, the sound echoing into the dark. The deeper she went, the colder it got, her breath misting in front of her. At the bottom, the tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden under tarps and flickering lanterns. The air hummed with a low, electric energy, like the moment before a storm. And then she saw him. Herrera stood near a stall at the far end, his back to her, talking to a figure shrouded in a hooded cloak. Quinn ducked behind a stack of crates, her heart hammering. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Herrera’s posture was tense, his hands gesturing sharply. The hooded figure reached into their robes, pulling out a small, bone-white token. Herrera took it, nodding once before turning toward another tunnel. Quinn’s fingers tightened around her torch. She had to follow him. Had to see where he was going, what he was involved in. But the market was alive with movement now—figures slipping between the stalls, their voices a low murmur. She was out of her depth here. She took a step forward, then froze. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Quinn spun, her free hand going for her sidearm, but the figure was faster. A blade glinted in the dim light, pressing against her throat. She froze, her breath shallow. “You don’t belong here, Detective,” a voice hissed in her ear. The accent was thick, Eastern European. The blade pressed harder, just shy of breaking skin. Quinn’s mind raced. She could fight. Could try to disarm him. But one wrong move, and she’d be bleeding out in this underground hell. “Let me go,” she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. “I’m not here for you.” The blade didn’t move. “Then who are you here for?” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She had one play. “Tomás Herrera.” A pause. Then the pressure on her throat eased, just slightly. “Why?” “He’s a suspect in an ongoing investigation,” she said. “And I’m not leaving without him.” The figure chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You’re either very brave or very stupid, Detective.” Quinn didn’t answer. She was both. The blade withdrew. The figure stepped back, melting into the shadows. “Go. But if you’re still here when the market moves, you’ll wish you’d never come down those stairs.” Quinn didn’t wait for a second warning. She turned, her torch cutting through the dark as she sprinted after Herrera. The tunnel he’d taken was narrower, the walls slick with moisture. The air smelled of salt and something sharper, like ozone and burning metal. And then she saw it—the end of the tunnel, a faint glow spilling from the other side. She slowed, pressing herself against the wall. Peering around the corner, she saw Herrera standing in a small chamber, his back to her. A figure in a long coat stood across from him, their face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. Between them, a table was covered in vials of swirling liquid, their colors shifting like oil on water. Quinn’s breath caught. This was it. This was what she’d been chasing. She stepped forward, her boot scuffing against the stone. Herrera turned. His warm brown eyes locked onto hers, widening in recognition. “Detective,” he said, his voice low. “You shouldn’t have followed me.” Quinn’s hand hovered over her sidearm. “Step away from the table, Herrera. Now.” The figure in the coat didn’t move. “She’s persistent,” they said, their voice like gravel. “I’ll give her that.” Herrera didn’t take his eyes off Quinn. “You don’t understand what you’re walking into.” “Then explain it to me,” she said. “Because right now, all I see is a man with a lot to hide.” Herrera exhaled sharply. “You want the truth? Fine. But you’re not going to like it.” The figure in the coat chuckled. “Oh, this should be good.” Quinn’s fingers twitched. She was running out of time. Out of options. And then the lights flickered. The chamber plunged into darkness.