Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQPXZVBDBNDA7R0V6X4C8W

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into rivers of reflected neon and fractured light. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her shoulder against the brick corner of a shuttered newsagent's, her breath coming in controlled pulls that misted in the cold air. Three years of chasing shadows through this city, and she'd learned to read the rhythm of pursuit—the way footsteps echoed differently on wet cobblestones, the particular quality of silence that meant someone was holding their breath around the next corner. She checked her watch. The worn leather band was dark with rain, the face fogged at the edges. 11:47 PM. The suspect had a two-minute head start, which meant he could be anywhere in the maze of Soho's back alleys by now. But Quinn had been tracking Tomás Herrera for three weeks, and she knew his patterns. Knew he favored the routes with multiple exits, the paths that skirted the main roads but never quite crossed into open territory. She'd first spotted him outside The Raven's Nest, that dim little bar with the distinctive green neon sign that had popped up on her radar half a dozen times in the past month. Herrera had emerged from a side door, his olive skin pale under the streetlights, his hand moving to the Saint Christopher medallion at his throat. A nervous gesture. The kind of thing a man did when he was carrying something he shouldn't be. Quinn rounded the corner, her shoes splashing through a puddle that soaked through to her socks. The cold was a distant thing, something she could file away for later. Right now, there was only the hunt. She caught sight of him fifty meters ahead—a darker shadow against the dark, moving with purpose but not panic. He wasn't running. That was interesting. A man with something to hide usually ran. But Herrera was walking quickly, with intention, his head turning every few seconds to check the angles behind him. She let him get a little ahead. Let him think he'd lost her. The mistake most people made was closing too fast, spooking the quarry into unpredictable movement. Quinn had learned patience from Morris, back when they'd worked cases together. Back when she'd had a partner who watched her six and laughed at her coffee addiction and— She shut down that line of thought with military precision, the same way she'd done a thousand times before. Herrera turned left onto Frith Street, then cut right down a narrow passage between two restaurants. Quinn followed, keeping her footsteps light, timing her movements to his. The rain was working in her favor now, the constant drumming masking any sound she might have made. She could see the scar on his left forearm as his jacket sleeve rode up—thin and pale, the kind of mark a knife left when someone was trying not to cut deep. The passage opened onto a wider street, and for a moment she thought she'd lost him. But then she caught the movement—a flicker of motion near the mouth of an old Underground entrance, one of those abandoned stations that had been closed since before she was born. The chain-link fence had been cut away at some point, the edges of the gap rusted and dark. She watched Herrera approach the entrance, and that's when she saw it. He pulled something from his pocket—a pale disc that caught the streetlight for just an instant before he pressed it against something at the base of the stairs. Bone. It looked like carved bone, a token of some kind. The door that she'd taken for solid metal swung inward on silent hinges, and Herrera slipped through into the darkness beyond. Quinn counted to thirty, then moved. The entrance gaped like a mouth, the stairs descending into absolute blackness. She pulled out her phone, thumbed on the flashlight, and started down. The air changed as she went—warmer, thick with scents she couldn't quite place. Charcoal. Copper. Something floral and cloying that made her think of funerals. The beam of her light caught the edge of a platform, and she realized she was standing in what had once been a Tube station. The old tilework was still visible in places, cream and navy blue, though most of it had been covered over with tapestries and cloths that moved slightly in an unfelt breeze. Candles burned in alcoves cut into the walls, their flames perfectly still despite the open tunnel behind her. She could hear voices now, distant and layered, the particular quality of sound that meant a large enclosed space. A market. Some kind of underground market operating out of an abandoned station beneath Camden, invisible to the rest of the city. Quinn moved forward, her hand resting on the Glock at her hip. She'd checked the weapon twice before starting the pursuit, the same way she always did—magazine, safety, round in the chamber. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that preparation was the difference between going home at the end of a shift and becoming a statistic. The passage opened suddenly into a vast space, and she had to clamp down on her reaction. The station platform had been transformed into rows of stalls and tables, awnings strung between columns, vendors hawking goods that made her eyes refuse to focus. She caught fragments as she moved deeper into the crowd—vials of liquid that glowed faintly in the darkness, bundles of dried plants she didn't recognize, books with titles in languages that looked like they were crawling across the leather covers. The people here were wrong too. Not all of them—some looked like regular denizens of London's underground economy, the kind of faces she'd seen in a hundred raids and busts. But others moved strangely, their limbs too long, their shadows falling in directions that didn't match the light sources. A woman at a stall selling jewelry had eyes that reflected the candlelight like a cat's. A man pushing past her had a tattoo that moved, a snake coiling and uncoiling across his neck. Quinn kept her expression neutral through sheer force of will. Three years ago, she would have questioned her eyes, would have assumed she was seeing things. But that was before Morris. Before the case that had taken him, the one that had ended with her partner vanished and every official explanation ringing hollow. She'd learned that the world was stranger than the Metropolitan Police training manual had prepared her for. She spotted Herrera through a gap in the crowd, his curly dark hair unmistakable even in the dim light. He was moving toward the far end of the platform, where a series of doors led into what had once been staff areas and storage rooms. She tracked him with her eyes, not wanting to close the distance too quickly. This market was a puzzle she didn't understand yet, and walking in blind was a good way to end up like Morris. She thought again of her partner. Three years trying to find out what had happened to him, three years hitting walls and dead ends and cryptic warnings from people who knew better than to talk. The case that had killed him—or taken him, or done whatever it had done—had involved something like this. Something hidden. Something that operated in the spaces between the world she knew and something else entirely. A vendor stepped into her path, a young man with too-wide eyes and a smile that showed teeth that had been filed to points. "Looking for something specific, love? Got a lovely selection of memories tonight, if you've got the coin. Someone else's, of course, but they feel real enough when you use them." Quinn stared at him until he stepped back, his smile faltering. She didn't have time for whatever that was. She didn't have time to process any of this. Herrera was reaching a door at the far end, glancing behind him one more time, and she had to decide. Follow him deeper, into a space she didn't know and couldn't predict, in a market that operated by rules she didn't understand. Or pull back, try to gather backup, try to explain to her superiors that she'd tracked an unlicensed medic into a supernatural black market beneath Camden and needed a tactical team. But she knew what would happen if she reported this. The same thing that had happened with Morris's case—files sealed, questions deflected, career trajectory subtly altered until she found herself moved sideways into positions where she couldn't cause trouble. The force didn't want to see this. The force wanted to pretend it didn't exist. Herrera opened the door and slipped through. Quinn thought of Morris's laugh, the way he'd always said she was too stubborn for her own good. She thought of his wife at the funeral, hollow-eyed and gripping her husband's empty medal box like a lifeline. She thought of eighteen years of service and the way her sharp jaw was starting to show lines that hadn't been there a decade ago. Then she started moving toward the door, her hand still on her weapon, her senses straining against the unfamiliar darkness.