Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPBG01XM80PP4AMJW08EWA

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering black mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure in the dark coat, her boots splashing through oily puddles. The neon sign of The Raven's Nest—that distinctive green glow—reflected in the wet pavement behind her as she rounded the corner. "Met Police! Stop!" Her voice cut through the drumming rain, but the suspect only ducked his head lower and picked up speed. Quinn's breath burned in her lungs. She'd been tailing him for three blocks now, ever since she spotted him slipping out of the bar's hidden back room. Something about the way he moved—too smooth, too aware—had set off alarms in her head. Eighteen years on the force had honed her instincts, and right now, they screamed that this man knew things. Things about the cases she couldn't explain. Things about Morris. The suspect darted into an alley, and Quinn followed without hesitation. The narrow passage reeked of damp brick and rotting trash. Her watch—the worn leather one Morris had given her—ticked steadily against her wrist, a grounding rhythm in the chaos. Then, just as she thought she had him cornered, he vanished. Quinn skidded to a stop, scanning the alley. A rusted service ladder led up to a fire escape, but no movement there. Then she saw it—a sliver of light from a half-open grate in the pavement. The man's coat tail disappeared into the darkness below. She crouched, fingers brushing the cold metal. A faint hum of voices drifted up, along with the scent of incense and something metallic. Blood? Her pulse kicked up. This wasn't just a sewer. Tomás Herrera's warning from last week echoed in her mind. *"There are places even the police shouldn't go, Detective."* He'd been stitching up a gash on her forearm—courtesy of a junkie with a box cutter—and his Saint Christopher medallion had glinted in the clinic's dim light. *"The Market doesn't like outsiders."* Quinn hesitated. Protocol said call for backup. But backup wouldn't believe her about the whispers in the walls, the files that went missing from evidence, the way Morris' body had been found with no wounds but his face frozen in terror. She pulled out her phone, typed a quick location pin, and sent it to her private cloud. Then she holstered her sidearm, drew her compact backup piece, and dropped into the hole. The ladder led down into an abandoned Tube station, its tiled walls covered in strange, swirling graffiti that seemed to shift under her flashlight beam. The air was thick with the smell of burning herbs and wet stone. Up ahead, the tunnel opened into a cavernous space lit by flickering lanterns. Stalls lined the walls, their wares obscured by hanging cloths. The Veil Market. Quinn moved forward, keeping to the shadows. A hooded figure passed her, carrying a burlap sack that dripped something dark. No one looked at her twice. Either they didn't care, or they didn't see her. Then she spotted her suspect, talking urgently to a woman with too-sharp teeth. The woman handed him a small wooden box, and he slipped it inside his coat. Quinn stepped out. "Metropolitan Police. Hands where I can see them." The Market went silent. The suspect turned slowly, and for the first time, she saw his eyes—pupils blown so wide they swallowed the iris. He smiled. "Detective Quinn. We've been expecting you." Behind her, the grate slammed shut.