Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEW2PQ53QYHV9PADVK6CP

The rain fell in sheets, turning the neon glow of Soho’s streets into a smeared watercolor. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow. Her boots splashed through puddles, the soles gripping the slick pavement as she wove between clusters of drunken revelers stumbling out of pubs. The suspect—tall, lean, moving with the kind of liquid grace that set her teeth on edge—had a twenty-meter lead, but she wasn’t losing him. Not tonight. She’d been tailing Tomás Herrera for three days. Three days of watching him slip in and out of back alleys, of catching the way his fingers twitched toward the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck like it was some kind of talisman. Three days of him leading her in circles, always one step ahead, always just out of reach. But tonight, he’d made a mistake. He’d bolted from *The Raven’s Nest* like the devil himself was on his heels, and Quinn had been ready. She ducked under the awning of a shuttered bookshop, pressing her back against the damp brick. The suspect—Herrera—paused at the mouth of an alley, his breath fogging in the cold air. He wasn’t just running. He was *hunting* something. Or someone. The way his head swiveled, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—it wasn’t fear. It was calculation. Quinn exhaled through her nose, her pulse steady. She’d been a detective long enough to recognize the signs. Herrera wasn’t just some two-bit criminal. He was part of something bigger. Something that had cost her partner his life. The memory hit her like a punch to the gut—Morris, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights of the morgue, his skin too still, too *wrong*. The coroner’s report had called it a heart attack. But Quinn had seen the way his eyes had gone wide in that alley three years ago, the way his fingers had clawed at his chest like he was trying to dig something out. And then there had been the *other* thing—the thing she didn’t talk about, not even to herself. The way the shadows had *moved* that night. The way the air had hummed with something that wasn’t quite sound. She shook her head, forcing the memory back into the locked box where it belonged. Now wasn’t the time. Herrera bolted again, disappearing into the alley. Quinn pushed off the wall and followed, her hand resting on the baton at her hip. The alley stank of urine and damp cardboard, the rain turning the garbage into a soupy mess underfoot. She moved quietly, her breath controlled, her eyes scanning the darkness. The alley dead-ended at a rusted fire escape, but Herrera wasn’t climbing. He was crouched beside a manhole cover, his fingers working at the edges. Quinn’s stomach twisted. *No. Not down there.* She’d heard the rumors. Whispers in the station break room about things that moved in the dark beneath the city. About a market that wasn’t supposed to exist, where people traded in things that defied explanation. She’d written it off as cop lore, the kind of stories that kept rookies up at night. But the way Herrera was moving—like he knew exactly what he was doing—made her skin prickle. “Herrera!” Her voice cut through the rain, sharp and authoritative. “Step away from the manhole. Now.” He froze, his back still to her. For a second, she thought he might comply. Then he laughed—a low, humorless sound—and twisted the manhole cover free. The metal groaned as he shoved it aside, revealing a yawning black hole. “You don’t want to follow me, Detective,” he called over his shoulder, his accent thick with something that wasn’t just Spanish. It was older. Darker. “This isn’t your world.” Quinn’s fingers tightened around her baton. “I don’t care what world it is. You’re coming with me.” Herrera didn’t answer. He dropped into the hole, his descent swift and silent. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She holstered her baton, pulled her torch from her belt, and followed. The ladder was slick with condensation, the rungs cold beneath her palms. The air grew thicker as she descended, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood. Her torch cut a weak beam through the darkness, illuminating the curved walls of a tunnel. The Tube. But not the Tube she knew. This one was abandoned, the tiles cracked and peeling, the tracks rusted and overgrown with something that looked like black moss. Herrera was already moving, his footsteps echoing ahead of her. Quinn picked up her pace, her boots splashing through shallow pools of stagnant water. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder, the silence deeper. Then, just as she was starting to wonder if she’d lost him, the tunnel opened up. Quinn skidded to a stop, her torch beam flickering over a scene that made her breath catch. The abandoned station was vast, its high ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the platform, their awnings patched together from mismatched fabrics, their wares glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. Jars of swirling liquids. Bundles of dried herbs that smelled like burnt sugar and something sharper, like ozone. Weapons that hummed with energy, their blades etched with symbols that made her eyes ache. And the people—if they *were* people. Some had too many eyes. Others moved with a fluidity that wasn’t quite human. A few turned to look at her, their gazes sharp with curiosity, with hunger. Quinn’s grip on her torch tightened. *What the hell is this place?* Herrera was already halfway across the platform, weaving through the crowd like he belonged here. Quinn forced herself to move, her pulse hammering in her throat. She kept her torch low, her free hand resting on her baton. She wasn’t armed for this. She wasn’t *prepared* for this. But she wasn’t turning back. A figure stepped into her path—a woman with skin like polished obsidian and eyes that gleamed like polished silver. She smiled, her teeth too white, too sharp. “Lost, Detective?” Her voice was a purr, smooth and dangerous. Quinn didn’t flinch. “I’m looking for someone.” The woman’s smile widened. “Aren’t we all?” Quinn sidestepped her, her eyes locked on Herrera’s retreating back. He was heading toward a stall at the far end of the platform, where a man with a face like a skull wrapped in parchment was arranging what looked like bones into intricate patterns. Herrera leaned in, his voice too low for Quinn to hear. The skull-faced man nodded, then reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Quinn’s stomach dropped. *Drugs. Or worse.* She broke into a run, shoving past a group of figures in tattered coats. Herrera turned just as she reached him, his eyes widening. He didn’t have time to react. Quinn grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his scarred forearm. “You’re under arrest,” she snapped. Herrera’s expression twisted—anger, fear, something else she couldn’t name. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.” “I understand enough.” She twisted his arm behind his back, her other hand reaching for her cuffs. “You’re coming with me.” The skull-faced man let out a hiss, his fingers curling around the bundle. “She doesn’t belong here.” Quinn ignored him, her focus locked on Herrera. “Move.” Herrera didn’t resist. But as she turned to drag him back the way she’d come, the crowd parted. A figure stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding enough to silence the chatter around them. His face was half-hidden in shadow, but Quinn could see the sharp angle of his jaw, the cold glint of his eyes. “Detective Quinn,” the man said, his voice smooth, amused. “I was wondering when you’d find your way down here.” Quinn’s blood ran cold. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her nightmares. Silas. The owner of *The Raven’s Nest*. The man who’d been one step ahead of her for months. The man who’d been there the night Morris died. Herrera stiffened in her grip. “Silas, don’t—” Silas held up a hand, silencing him. His gaze never left Quinn. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for a long time, Detective. But I’ll give you this—you’ve got nerve.” Quinn’s fingers tightened around her cuffs. “Step aside. This doesn’t concern you.” Silas chuckled, the sound low and dark. “Everything down here concerns me.” He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the platform. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with. This isn’t your world. It’s not even close.” Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears. She could feel the weight of the crowd’s gaze on her, the press of something unseen, something *wrong*. But she wasn’t backing down. Not now. “Then enlighten me,” she said, her voice steady. “Because I’m not leaving without him.” Silas studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Brave words, Detective. But bravery won’t save you down here.” Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. She’d made her choice the moment she followed Herrera into the dark. And she wasn’t turning back.