Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PBRDCAQ138G05K8RTV

Rain spatters across Harlow Quinn’s coat as she picks her way through the puddled asphalt of Old Soho. Each streetlamp tilts in the drizzle, casting fractured shadows that flicker with the neon glow of a distant Raven’s Nest sign. Somewhere back there, the suspect—someone Quinn has trailed for three blocks—slipped into a side alley. Now Quinn’s boots splash through reflecting pools, her breath coming in crisp, even bursts. She tastes the cold edge of midnight, sharp as a blade. Her left hand hovers at her hip, fingers brushing the cold leather of her service pistol. The world compresses into one focus: the chase. She rounds the corner and catches a glimpse of movement: a flash of a raincoat drained of color, shoulders hunched against the downpour. The figure darts through stacks of overturned crates, weaving between the brick skeletons of half-demolished storefronts. Quinn accelerates, each muscle coiled with disciplined intent. She presses her jaw forward—sharp line cutting into the night air—and resets her aim on the suspect’s collar. Rain hammers at her shoulders, each droplet drumming against her closely cropped hair. She imagines the suspect’s heartbeat echoing her own, tight and urgent. “Stop!” she calls, voice crisp, seeded with authority. The suspect doesn’t slow. They vault over a rusted fire escape ladder, metal groaning under their weight. Beneath the clamor, there’s something else: a soft scrape, like fingernails against stone. Something that shouldn’t be here. Quinn’s instincts—shaped by eighteen years in the Met—whisper of hidden routes. She swings right, roars after them through a narrow cut in an ivy-choked wall. Water sluices down dripping vines. Her foot catches on uneven mortar. She stumbles, catches herself, then vaults forward, nearly toppling into a yawning mouth of concrete. In seconds the chase has plummeted her from street level into an abandoned Tube station, its entrance concealed beneath a rusted grate. The stairwell yawns downward, slick with rain runoff and long-dry graffiti tagging the ancient walls: symbols she doesn’t recognize, arcs that look like runes. Her pulse picks up. She flicks on a battered torch clipped to her belt—its beam slices through the gloom, illuminating loose rubble and splinters of wood. Cold wind sighs up the steps, carrying an undercurrent of rot, copper, and something faintly acrid. Quinn presses down, careful to keep her light low, cautious of giving away her position too early. Her leather watch, worn soft by years of duty, glints once before vanishing into shadow. Halfway down, she hears it: a muted conversation, voices low and hurried, overlapping. One rough voice—stubbled, clipped with urgency—says, “Token’s in place. Don’t waste time.” A wet slap echoes, like flesh against flesh. Quinn pauses, hand tightening on the torch. Her breath curls in the dark. Beneath the Tube’s carved-in geodesic ribs, she senses the air shift: as if the world here obeys different rules. Her partner’s face flickers behind her closed lids—Morris, smiling as he cursed a stubborn door. Quinn swallows. That case, three years ago, had left her with no answers and a wound she still weighs nightly. She pushes on. The stairwell spits her into a cavernous platform. The ceiling here seems to have collapsed decades ago, leaving jagged beams crisscrossing overhead. Beyond them, stray tendrils of green neon glow, seeping from a sign mounted on a reclaimed station wall. VARNISH. Veil Market. The letters flicker. Quinn’s chest tightens. This is the whisper network she’s chased through precinct briefings—an underground bazaar for enchanted goods, illicit alchemy, secrets powerful enough to bulldoze careers. The suspect stands at a makeshift checkpoint, pressed against a rail. Two burly figures flank a battered turnstile laden with rust. Between their gauntleted hands lies a carved bone token, ivory streaked with red. They palm the token, exchange a nod. The turnstile clicks open, admitting a dozen dark shapes flowing past. Quinn steps forward, torch raised. Her voice bounces against the dusty brick. “Police!” No one flinches. Voices hush. Shadowed faces swivel toward her: a woman in a velvet shawl, fingertips tipped in silver. A man with eyes too bright and pupils too narrow. The air thrums. A hallucinatory scent of saffron and brimstone curls beneath her nose. The bouncers—shorter but broad-chested—exchange a glance. One grunts, lifting a gaunt finger at the token in their partner’s hand. Quinn recognizes the protocol: show the bone, pass the gate. She reaches into her coat instead for her warrant. It doesn’t matter. Here, her badge is meaningless. She takes a steadying breath. Weapon still drawn, she advances. The first bouncer’s knuckles, scarred from rituals she doesn’t understand, clamp on her shoulder. Frost blooms where his skin meets hers, then vanishes. She staggers but doesn’t drop the torch. Rainwater drips from her shoulders onto the tile—tiny black puddles where the neon light fights the dark. The bouncer’s breath is damp and hollow. “No entry,” he intones, voice gravel against velvet. “No bone.” Quinn heels planted, she levels her gaze. “Where’s the suspect?” she demands. “Someone chipped a kid. I need him now.” She sees doubt flicker in the second guard’s eyes. “Token or you turn back,” he says. She presses her jaw—military precision anchored in her bones. “What’s he got? The one in the raincoat.” She spares him a glance. “He gave me a name.” Rictus. The guard stiffens. Quinn has never heard that name before, but the guard’s fingers twitch. He lifts the bone token to her face as if to taunt. “You bleed that token, you pay in kind.” Behind her, the crowd inches closer, pressing in like a tide of smoke. Alchemical vials clink. A butcher’s hook glints. Vines of dyed leather coil over an oak table, moving like living things. The guard loosens his grip. Quinn’s breath hitches in the charged air. Her pulse throbs in her ears. Duty claws at her with sharp nails—evidence to secure, laws to enforce—while fear trails at her heels, whispering of unseen horrors. Morris died because he chased too far. She survived because she turned back once. Now she stands at the edge of a world she barely understands, between the warmth of the rain outside and this unnatural glow below. She lifts one boot, steps forward. The guard’s hand tightens. Lightning flickers—a shuttering overhead light. In that crack of brightness, Quinn sees the suspect slip through a side arch, vanishing into another corridor carved from soot and spray-paint. He moves with desperate grace, corners bending inhumanly. Quinn tightens her grip on her torch. She shakes off the bouncer’s hand, jolts free. He recovers, menacing, but she guns her engine. She’ll pay the price later. For now, she bolts past the turnstile, torch slicing through bodies and stalls. She finds herself in a narrow tunnel hung with ragged banners, each bearing symbols that pulse in the neon haze. Damp earth presses at her boots. The world tilts toward the unknown, and she leaps in after him without a second thought.