Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNEZDX75A1MW9SM9W45FKV3

The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the cobblestones into a mosaic of shimmering black mirrors. Detective Harlow Quinn leaned into the wind, her salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her forehead as she sprinted down Dean Street. The neon glare of the Raven’s Nest threw an emerald wash across the wet pavement behind her - the last place she’d spotted Tomás Herrera before he bolted like a startled deer. Her leather boots skidded on the slick pavement as she rounded the corner into an alley. The faint jingle of a medallion and the slap of wet footfalls echoed off the brick walls ahead. She could just make out the shadow of his olive-skinned forearm flashing between dumpsters, the scar along it catching the yellow light of a security lamp. Harlow tapped her earpiece. "Suspect heading east toward Charing Cross. Requesting backup." Static hissed in response. She cursed under her breath - the damn rain must be messing with the signal again. The alley dumped her out onto a wider thoroughfare where the glow of streetlights warred with the storm. A black cab swerved, horn blaring, as Herrera dashed across the road without looking. Harlow barely registered the driver's shouted curse as she followed, the worn leather band of her watch digging into her wrist with each pumping arm motion. She was gaining on him now. The former medic wasn't built for sustained sprints - his breath came in ragged gasps that carried over the drumming rain. Then suddenly he veered left, disappearing down a set of rusted metal stairs into an alleyway so narrow Harlow had to turn sideways to follow. The stairs led to a service entrance marked with faded Underground signage. The door stood slightly ajar, casting an ominous yellow wedge of light onto the wet steps. Harlow hesitated, hand hovering near her service pistol. No badge, no backup, no idea what lay beyond that door. But then she heard the distinctive clink of Herrera's medallion bouncing against his chest as he ran deeper into whatever labyrinth waited below. A metallic taste flooded her mouth. She'd been here before, chasing leads into the dark three years ago. DS Morris had hesitated at a similar threshold - a decision that cost him everything. Harlow set her sharp jaw, drew her weapon, and pushed through the door. The air changed immediately - the sterile rain scent replaced by something damp and organic, like soil after a thaw. The tunnel sloped downward, the concrete walls giving way to curved brickwork from some abandoned Tube station annex. Flickering LED strands illuminated a crude path through the archways, casting jumping shadows that made Harlow's pulse thrum in her throat. Distant sounds swirled up the tunnel - the murmur of voices, the clink of glassware, and something else... a low, resonant hum that vibrated in her molars. Her boots scraped against the uneven floor as she crept forward, keeping to the damp patches where her steps wouldn't echo. The tunnel opened abruptly into a cavernous space that stole Harlow's breath. The abandoned station platform teemed with figures in hooded robes and rain-spattered coats haggling at makeshift stalls. One vendor displayed rows of vials filled with swirling liquids that defied color names - hues that appeared and disappeared when viewed from different angles. Another sold what looked like ceremonial daggers, their blades etched with symbols that made Harlow's eyes water if she stared too long. A handcart stacked with antique bone carvings blocked her path temporarily, giving her cover to observe. And there - twenty yards ahead - Herrera stood talking urgently with a tall figure in a long black coat, their hands exchanging something small that glinted in the low light. Harlow moved without thinking, military precision carrying her past a stall selling what appeared to be jars of preserved moths. The vendor's head snapped up as she passed, nostrils flaring like he'd caught her scent. She pivoted, putting a cluster of shoppers between them, but when she refocused on Herrera's position, both men had vanished. A door in the far wall swung gently on its hinges. Harlow edged closer, catching a glimpse of another tunnel beyond. From within came whispers in a language that scraped at the back of her skull, along with a scent like burning hair. Her service pistol felt suddenly inadequate in her hand, the weight all wrong against the wrongness of this place. She couldn't articulate why her feet carried her forward into that darker passage, why every survival instinct screaming at her to retreat couldn't overpower the need to know. Maybe it was the memory of Morris' unanswered questions. Maybe it was the way Herrera had looked at her in the Raven's Nest before he ran - not with guilt, but with something like pity. The passage narrowed, the walls closing in until the brickwork brushed her shoulders. Somewhere ahead, a door clicked shut with finality. Harlow quickened her pace, her watch strap creaking with the movement. The last turn revealed a dead end - just a blank wall with a single rusted pipe protruding at eye level. She was reaching for it when a voice behind her said, "You shouldn't be here, Detective." Harlow spun, weapon rising automatically. Tomás Herrera stood framed in the tunnel's mouth, his Saint Christopher medallion swinging gently. Only now she noticed the markings on it weren't Christian symbolism at all, but something much older. "Tell me what this place is," Harlow demanded, her back pressed to the damp bricks. "What you're involved in." Herrera's expression turned sad. He reached into his coat pocket, and for a heart-stopping moment Harlow thought he might draw a weapon. Instead he produced a bone-white token, identical to the ones she'd seen changing hands at the market stalls. "Everyone pays to cross the veil," he said softly. "The question is, are you buying... or are you merchandise?" The pipe behind her groaned like a living thing. Harlow barely registered the cool metal against her neck before the world dissolved into swirling shadows and the distant sound of wings.