Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMV25Y20AWXCAXRHAE9GAT

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest flickered like a dying ember against the storm’s relentless assault, its green sign bleeding into the rain-slicked pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath came in shallow bursts, her leather watch—worn and timeworn—ticking against the damp fabric of her coat. The wind howled through the alleyways, carrying the scent of damp earth and something older, something metallic beneath the rain. She’d been chasing Tomás Herrera for hours. The man had vanished into the labyrinth of Soho after leaving the bar, his dark curls damp from the downpour, his olive skin flushed with something more than exertion. Quinn had followed him through the usual routes—back alleys, doorways, the flickering glow of streetlamps—but he’d slipped away like smoke. Until now. Now, he stood at the edge of the Tube station entrance, his back to her, his Saint Christopher medallion catching the dim light of a flickering sign. Quinn moved with military precision, her boots crunching on the wet pavement, her jaw set. She had no choice. Not when the chase had led her this far. The rain hammered against her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn’t slow. Herrera turned, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers for just a second before he vanished into the shadows. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She lunged, her coat flaring behind her as she dove into the chaos of the abandoned station. The air was thick with the scent of rust and something else—something sour, like old blood. The station had been sealed for years, but the damp had carved its way through the concrete, leaving the air heavy with the weight of forgotten things. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat, her fingers digging into the cold metal of the platform railing as she pushed forward. Herrera was ahead of her, moving with the quiet efficiency of a man who knew the station’s secrets. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles, her breath fogging in the cold air as she followed. She could hear him—his quick, sure footsteps, the occasional rustle of his coat. She was gaining. Then, the sound of a door opening. Quinn froze. A low hum filled the air, like the distant roar of a machine. The station’s exit—a narrow door set into the wall, barely visible in the gloom—was ajar. Herrera stepped through first, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness beyond. Quinn didn’t wait. She lunged, her fingers closing around the cold metal of the door handle. The station groaned beneath her as she forced it open, the air outside sharp with the scent of damp stone and something else—something electric, like the hum of a circuit just about to spark. The Veil Market stretched before her, a labyrinth of stalls and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something metallic, like old coins and blood. Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stepped into the chaos. Herrera was already moving, his dark curls damp and wild, his scar running along his left forearm catching the flickering light of a lantern. Quinn’s eyes locked onto him, her mind racing. She had no idea what lay ahead, no idea what dangers lurked in this underground world. But she had no choice. She followed.