Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNEV4W3FF4V9AG701NTCJAG

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering black mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure in the dark hoodie, her boots splashing through oily puddles. The neon sign of The Raven's Nest—that distinctive green glow—reflected in the wet pavement behind her as she gave chase. "Met Police! Stop!" Her voice cut through the drumming rain, but the suspect didn't even glance back. She adjusted her grip on her service weapon, not drawing it yet, but ready. The suspect darted left into an alley, and Quinn followed, her breath steady despite the burn in her lungs. Eighteen years on the force had taught her how to pace herself in a pursuit. The alley narrowed, trash bags piled against the brick walls, the stench of rotting food thick in the damp air. The suspect vaulted over a rusted fire escape ladder, landing with a splash on the other side. Quinn didn't hesitate—she grabbed the metal rung and swung herself over, her worn leather watch catching on the edge. A sharp tug, and the strap held. She lost sight of the suspect for a heartbeat as he rounded another corner. When she caught up, he was gone. Quinn slowed, scanning the rain-slicked street. No doors had opened. No footsteps echoed ahead. Then she saw it—a grate in the pavement, slightly ajar. Fresh scuff marks on the metal. She crouched, fingers brushing the cold iron. Below, darkness. The distant hum of voices. Her radio crackled at her hip. "Quinn, status?" She hesitated. Protocol said call for backup. Wait for uniforms to secure the area. But backup meant questions. Paperwork. And this lead—this was personal. Three years since Morris had vanished. Three years of dead ends. Until tonight. She keyed the radio. "In pursuit. Lost visual. Checking adjacent streets." A lie. But Morris had been her partner. Her friend. If there was even a chance this was connected— Quinn holstered her radio, gripped the edge of the grate, and pulled. The metal groaned open, revealing a ladder descending into the dark. The smell of damp concrete and something else—ozone, maybe. Like the air before a storm. She climbed down, the rungs slick under her fingers. The tunnel below was dimly lit by flickering bulbs, the walls lined with pipes and old wiring. The hum of voices grew clearer—not English. Something older. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Quinn turned, hand on her weapon. "Show yourself." The man who stepped into the light was young, olive-skinned, with short curly hair. A scar ran along his left forearm, visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves. A Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. "You're not supposed to be here," he said, his accent Spanish. "Metropolitan Police," Quinn said, flashing her badge. "I'm pursuing a suspect." Tomás Herrera exhaled sharply. "This isn't your jurisdiction, Detective." "Then what is it?" His dark eyes flicked toward the tunnel's end, where the hum of voices grew louder. "A place you don't want to go without the right token." Quinn's jaw tightened. "Try me." Tomás hesitated, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, carved bone—a token, she realized. "If you follow him in there, they'll know you don't belong. And they don't like trespassers." She studied his face. No fear. Just warning. "Who are you?" "Someone who patches up the people who make it back out." He held out the token. "Take it or walk away. But decide fast." The voices down the tunnel rose in a sudden burst of laughter. Something about the sound set her teeth on edge. Not human. Not quite. Quinn took the token. It was warm in her palm. Tomás nodded. "Stay close. And don't touch anything." She followed him toward the light, her pulse steady, her fingers brushing the grip of her gun. Whatever lay ahead, she was going in. For Morris. For the truth. Even if it cost her.