Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMNHB8TPHWPWJ535SG0KK5

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless drumming that turned the pavement into a slick mirror, reflecting the neon glow of the Raven’s Nest’s green sign as Quinn passed beneath it. She didn’t slow. The leather of her watch strap, worn thin at the edges, creaked against her wrist with each step, the only sound cutting through the storm’s roar. Her breath came sharp and controlled, her jaw tight enough to feel the tension radiate down her spine. *Morris would’ve known what to do here.* She’d lost the suspect at the corner of Wardour Street, but the trail hadn’t vanished—it had doubled back, sharp and deliberate, like someone who knew exactly where they were going. And Quinn knew, too. The Raven’s Nest wasn’t just a bar. It was a front. A place where the city’s secrets went to rot behind locked doors and whispered deals. The alley behind the pub was a maze of rusted metal and peeling paint, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, something metallic and faintly sweet—like old blood left too long in the sun. She crouched low, pressing her back against the wall, her fingers brushing the cold brick. The rain hammered against her collar, soaking through the wool of her coat. She could hear him now—light footsteps, quick and sure, moving with the ease of someone who owned the dark. A man who didn’t belong in the daylight. Quinn exhaled through her nose, then moved. She stayed to the shadows, her boots silent on the uneven pavement. The entrance to the Raven’s Nest was just ahead, its green neon sign pulsing like a dying heartbeat. She could walk in, call for backup, let the night shift handle the mess. But she didn’t. Because she knew what waited inside. Not just a bar. Not just a place where men in suits drank and women in tight dresses laughed too loud. A place where the clique gathered. A place where things happened that didn’t belong in the world she’d built her career on. She pressed her palm against the door, felt the slight give as it swung inward. The bell above chimed, hollow and mocking, and she stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and something else—something sharp, like ozone after a storm. The bar was dim, the only light coming from the flickering flames of a dozen candles on the tables. A few patrons sat in the corner, their faces half-lit, their drinks untouched. They all turned as she entered, but their expressions didn’t change. Not a single one of them looked surprised. They knew she was coming. Quinn kept her hands visible, her fingers curled loose around the grip of her sidearm. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. She moved toward the back of the room, where the walls were lined with old maps and yellowed photographs. The air grew cooler here, the hum of conversation fading into a murmur. She could feel it—the weight of something unseen pressing down on her, like the breath of a sleeping beast. Then she saw him. A man stood in the center of the room, his back to her, his dark hair slick with rain. He wasn’t alone. Two others flanked him, their faces half-hidden in shadow. The man turned slowly, his eyes locking onto hers. Tomás Herrera. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen his photo in the files—former paramedic, disbarred, rumored to be dealing in things that weren’t supposed to exist. But the man in front of her wasn’t just a name. He was warm brown eyes and a scar that ran along his left forearm like a brand. He was the kind of man who could make you feel seen, even when he was looking right through you. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “I wasn’t expecting you.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t trust the way her pulse had spiked, the way her fingers twitched toward her gun. Herrera smiled, just slightly. “You’re going to want to sit down.” She didn’t move. Behind him, the bookshelf shifted. A section of the wall slid open with a whisper, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. The air from below was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. Quinn’s breath hitched. She knew that smell. She’d smelled it before. In the alley where Morris had vanished. In the files that had been too neatly filed, too carefully sealed. “You’re not here for me,” Herrera said, his voice low. “You’re here for what’s below.” She didn’t look away. She didn’t blink. Then she stepped forward, her boots thudding against the floorboards. “Show me.” The staircase was narrow, the steps slick with moisture. The air grew colder as she descended, the hum of the city fading into a distant roar. At the bottom, a door stood slightly ajar, its edges glowing faintly blue. The scent of the underground market hit her like a physical blow—enchanted goods, alchemical substances, the sharp tang of something forbidden. The Veil Market. Quinn hesitated at the threshold. She could turn back. She could walk away. She could call for backup and let the night shift handle the mess. But she didn’t. She stepped inside. The market was a labyrinth of stalls and shadows, the air thick with the murmur of hushed voices and the clink of glass. People moved like ghosts, their faces half-lit by flickering lanterns. Some wore masks. Others didn’t. But they all knew she was there. They all knew who she was. And they all knew what she was about to do. She followed the trail of blue light deeper into the market, her fingers brushing the cold metal of her gun. She could feel it—the weight of the past pressing down on her, the ghost of Morris’s voice in her ear, *You’re not alone, Harlow. You never were.* She turned a corner and saw him. A man stood in the center of the market, his back to her, his hands wrapped around a bone token. The token glowed faintly blue, its edges sharp as a blade. He was the one who had led her here. The one who had known she was coming. Quinn raised her gun. “You’re going to want to put that away,” Herrera said, his voice coming from behind her. “Before you do something you’ll regret.” She didn’t lower the gun. The man turned, his face half-hidden in shadow. His eyes locked onto hers. And then the lights went out.