Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGCB2YWVX8DQYEV1D66W4

The rain fell in sheets, turning the neon glow of Soho into a smeared watercolor. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow as she splashed through a puddle deep enough to soak her boots, her breath coming sharp and controlled. The suspect—*Tomás Herrera*—had bolted the second he spotted her outside *The Raven’s Nest*, his dark curls plastered to his forehead as he wove through the crowd like a man who knew every alley by heart. Quinn did too, but she wasn’t chasing him through instinct. She was chasing him because three weeks ago, a body had turned up in the Thames with a Saint Christopher medallion clutched in its fingers, and Tomás Herrera’s name had been the only one on the victim’s lips before he died. She ducked under a sagging awning, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch as she checked the time—11:47 PM. The streets were slick with more than just rain. The air smelled of damp stone and something older, something metallic and wrong. Herrera had vanished around the corner of a narrow passage, his boots kicking up spray as he ran. Quinn followed, her pulse steady, her mind sharp. She’d been a detective long enough to know when a suspect was running *from* something and when they were running *to* it. Herrera wasn’t just fleeing her. He was heading somewhere. The passage opened into a dead-end courtyard, the kind that got forgotten between the grander streets of London. A rusted fire escape clung to the brickwork, its ladder dangling just out of reach. Quinn skidded to a halt, her boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. No sign of Herrera. No sound but the drumming of the rain and the distant wail of a siren. Then—movement. A shadow detaching itself from the darkness beneath the fire escape. A glint of metal. A *click*. Quinn’s hand flew to her holster before she registered the shape of the object in Herrera’s grip—not a gun, but a key. He didn’t turn to look at her. His focus was on the brick wall in front of him, his fingers working quickly, pressing against the mortar in a pattern only he seemed to know. The wall *shifted*. A section of brickwork groaned, then slid inward, revealing a yawning black mouth of a passage. Quinn’s stomach tightened. She knew this city. Knew its secrets, its hidden veins. But this? This was new. Herrera hesitated for half a second, his shoulders tensing as if he could feel her gaze boring into his back. Then he stepped inside, the darkness swallowing him whole. The brickwork began to grind shut behind him. Quinn didn’t think. She lunged. Her fingers caught the edge of the moving wall just as it sealed, the rough brick biting into her skin. She gritted her teeth and *pulled*, her muscles straining as the mechanism fought her. For a heartbeat, she thought it would win. Then, with a final, protesting groan, the wall gave way. She tumbled forward, landing hard on her knees on a set of damp stone steps. The passage sealed shut behind her with a final, echoing *thud*. Silence. Quinn stayed low, her breath shallow, her hand resting on the grip of her pistol. The air down here was thick, stale, like the inside of an old tomb. The steps descended into darkness, the only light coming from a flickering bulb somewhere below, casting long, wavering shadows. She could hear voices now—murmurs, the clink of glass, the occasional laugh that didn’t sound quite human. The scent of damp earth and something sharper, like ozone after a storm, filled her nose. She moved carefully, her boots making no sound on the stone. The steps opened into a vast, cavernous space, the ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the walls, their wares illuminated by lanterns that burned with an unnatural, shifting light—blue, then green, then a deep, bruise-like purple. Figures moved between them, some human, some… not. A woman with too many fingers counted out coins at a stall selling jars of swirling liquid. A man with skin like polished stone bargained over a dagger that hummed when he touched it. And there, slipping between the crowds, was Tomás Herrera. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her pistol again, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She wasn’t in her world anymore. The rules here were different. She followed, keeping to the shadows, her eyes scanning for exits, for threats. The market was a labyrinth, the stalls packed so tightly together that the aisles twisted and turned like the veins of some great beast. She caught snatches of conversation—whispers of deals, warnings, prices for things she didn’t want to understand. A man with a face like a melted candle offered her a vial of something that pulsed like a heartbeat. She shook her head and kept moving. Herrera didn’t look back. He moved with purpose, his path unerring, as if he’d walked these tunnels a hundred times before. Quinn’s jaw tightened. *Of course he had.* This was his world. His *territory.* And she was the intruder. He ducked into a narrow alley between two stalls, the fabric drapes swaying shut behind him. Quinn hesitated, then followed, her hand finally closing around the grip of her pistol. The alley was darker here, the lantern light barely reaching. The walls were lined with shelves, stacked with bones and bottles and things she couldn’t name. At the end of the alley, Herrera stood in front of a heavy wooden door, his knuckles rapping out a rhythm against the wood. The door creaked open. Quinn pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow. A voice, low and rough, rumbled from inside. “You’re late.” Herrera’s reply was too quiet for her to hear, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. The door swung wider, and he stepped inside. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She moved. Three strides, and she was at the door, her boot wedging it open before it could shut. The room beyond was small, lit by a single flickering candle. Herrera whirled, his eyes wide, his hand flying to the knife at his belt. But Quinn was faster. Her pistol was out, leveled at his chest, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. “Don’t,” she said, her voice low, steady. Herrera froze. The man behind him—a hulking figure with a face like a bulldog and a scar running from his temple to his jaw—didn’t. He lunged. Quinn fired. The shot was deafening in the small space. The man staggered, a dark bloom spreading across his shoulder, but he didn’t go down. His lips peeled back in a snarl, and he charged again. Quinn didn’t have time to think. She sidestepped, her elbow driving into his ribs as he passed. He grunted, but the momentum carried him into the wall. She spun, her pistol swinging back toward Herrera— —but he was already moving. Not at her. At the door. “Wait—!” Quinn barked, but it was too late. Herrera wrenched the door open and bolted, vanishing into the market’s twisting aisles. The wounded man groaned, pushing himself up from the floor, his eyes locked on her with a hunger that made her skin crawl. Quinn didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. She turned and ran. The market was chaos now. The gunshot had drawn attention. Figures melted out of the shadows, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. Quinn kept her pistol raised, her back to the wall as she scanned for Herrera. She caught a glimpse of his dark curls disappearing around a corner and took off after him, her boots pounding against the stone. He led her deeper into the market, past stalls selling things that made her stomach twist—jars of eyes, bundles of herbs that smelled like death, a cage with something small and furred that *whimpered* as she passed. The air grew thicker, the lantern light dimmer. The crowds thinned, then vanished entirely, leaving only the echo of her own breath and the distant drip of water. Then, suddenly, the market ended. Quinn skidded to a halt, her pistol sweeping the empty space in front of her. A dead end. A wall of rough-hewn stone, slick with moisture. No door. No exit. No Herrera. She turned slowly, her pulse hammering in her throat. The market stretched behind her, a maze of shadows and whispers. She was alone. And then she heard it. A *click.* Quinn spun, her pistol snapping up— —just as the lanterns flickered out, plunging her into darkness.