Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPFNA4SV4PT1HN6XSWFFTV

The rain pelted Detective Harlow Quinn's face as she sprinted down the slick cobblestone streets of Soho, her worn leather shoes slapping against the wet ground. Her salt-and-pepper hair, cropped short for practicality rather than style, were plastered to her skull. But Quinn barely noticed the weather. Her gaze was laser-focused on the figure darting through the neon-lit alleys ahead. The fugitive, a young man she recognized from the clique of street toughs she'd been watching for months, rounded a corner. Quinn put on a burst of speed, her military-tight movements propelling her forward. She caught a glimpse of dark curls, a flash of olive skin as she turned the corner, her sharp-angled jaw set in grim determination. "Police!" she shouted, her voice nearly drowned out by the driving rain and distant wail of a siren. "Stop running!" The young man - Herrera, she remembered the name from her case files - glanced back at her over his shoulder. His eyes, warm brown and wide with panic, met hers for a brief moment before he ducked into a darkened doorway. Quinn reached the doorway,, a scrutiny of green neon above identifying it as the Raven's Nest, a dive bar catering to Soho's seedy lower depths. She paused, catching her breath, one hand resting on the grip of her sidearm. Common sense told her to call in backup, to wait for reinforcements from the uniformed branch. But instinct, honed by years of chasing shadows and cults, told her to follow her quarry now, to take him down before he slipped away again. With a curse, she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the hum of low conversation. Eyes turned to the bedraggled policewoman, but no one spoke. In this place, trouble was not a welcome guest. Quinn scanned the room, her gaze landing on a curtained-off doorway on the far side of the bar. It was the only exit left. With a sharp nod, she strode forward, ignoring the sudden silence and the weight of unfriendly stares. She shoved her way through the curtain and into a stifling narrow hallway. One door stood open, revealing a storage room filled with dusty crates. Another door, this one tucked behind a shelf crowded with tattered books, was ajar. Without hesitation, Quinn grabbed the handle and pulled. The room beyond was even dimmer than the hallway, lit only by a single flickering glow lamp in the corner. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, to pick out the shapes of the objects clustered around the table beneath the lamp. Quinn froze, her gaze locked on the gleaming bones laid out in a spiral pattern above a cracked black mirror. Her heart lurched into her throat as she recognized the symbol - an arcane mark of-the-etheropaths, the bone-crafters. Around the table, shadowed figures sat hunched over the bones, their faces obscured by hoods and cowls. Anger surged through her veins, hot and fierce. This was what she'd been chasing for months, the real reason the clique had been skulking around Soho. They were dealers in the forbidden - unregistered magic, unexplained phenomena, items of unknown origin. And her quarry, Herrera, was right in the middle of it all. She took a step forward, her hand tightening on her gun. But a sharp voice from the shadows made her pause. "Stop." The owner of the voice stepped from the shadows - a man with cold eyes and a hard mouth. He was known as Silas, the owner of the Raven's Nest, turns out he was a collector more than a barkeep. "The Veil has lift," he said, his voice raspy from a hundred years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. "You're not welcome here now, copper." Quinn hesitated, her finger hovering over the trigger. The Veil, she knew, was the name of the secret supernatural society that ran London beneath the surface. And the Veil Market, this hidden underground depot, was where it conducted most of its business. "Herrera's not going anywhere," Silas said, as if reading her thoughts. "But you, on the other hand..." His eyes flicked to the doorway behind her, and a second later, Quinn heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. Quinn didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could feel the threat looming behind her, the weight of armed men ready to defend their trade. And for what? Another bone blade? An illegal potion? She could kill them all, but what would that get her in the end? More questions than answers. Chest tight, Quinn slowly lowered her gun. She had to live to fight another day. "Here's how this is going to work," Silas said, his tone hard as flint. "You walk out that door, and you walk away. No reports, no backup, no trouble from you and your kind ever again." His eyes bore into her, his message clear. This was a world she couldn't understand, one that operated on rules as old as the city itself. And if she tried to interfere, there would be consequences. Quinn ground her teeth, her fury burning like a coal in her stomach. She wasn't used to backing down, to letting criminals off the hook. But for now, she had no choice. Slowly, she backed away, keeping her gaze locked on Silas and his shadowed crew. She shouldered her way through the curtained doorway, the eyes of the bar patrons burning into her back as she emerged into the rainy night. Quinn walked out of the Raven's Nest, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. She stood for a long moment, hands clenched at her sides, surveying the street up and down. She had to let it go, for now. But one thing was certain - she would be back. So help her God.