Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF40CD3J3A8D4QYSN8QZ41

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho pavement into a black mirror reflecting neon signs and the occasional flash of headlights. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the downpour, her worn leather watch slipping against her wrist as she pumped her arms. Ahead, the figure she'd been tailing for six blocks ducked into an alley—Tomás Herrera, or at least someone matching his description. That scar on his forearm had been visible when he'd glanced back at her under a streetlight. She skidded around the corner just in time to see him vanish through a rusted service door. Quinn paused, one hand going to her sidearm, the other wiping rainwater from her sharp jaw تاخذ نفساً عميقاً. The scent of stale beer and damp concrete filled her nostrils. The door led down—stairs disappearing into darkness. No markings. Not on any of her precinct maps. Military training took over. Assess threats. Three steps at a time, weight balanced, she descended into the gloom. The stairwell smelled of mildew and something metallic beneath. Her fingers brushed the damp bricks to her left, steadying herself as herorsi ها eyes adjusted. At the bottom, a long corridor stretched into shadows, punctuated by the occasional flickering bulb. The faint murmur of voices reached her. Not just Tomás. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people. Quinn edged forward, her leather-soled shoes silent on the concrete. The corridor turned sharply right—and opened onto a sight that momentarily froze her in place. The abandoned Tube station sprawled before her like a cathedral of the damned. Makeshift stalls lined the curved platform walls, their awnings strung with fairy lights and what looked like dangling animal bones. Crowds moved through the space in uneasy currents—some figures hooded, others wearing riotous masks, still others too tall, too thin, perfectly normal except for the wrongness in their movements. A vendor handed something glassy and pulsing to a buyer whose fingers ended in claws. Quinn exhaled sharply through her nose. The air smelled of burnt sugar and ozone. Her hand stayed near her sidearm as she scanned the crowd for Tomás's curly dark hair. There—passing a stall selling what looked like jeweled beetles in jars. He moved with purpose toward the platform's far end. Her boots hit the platform tiles with barely a sound. Years of tactical training kept her stride measured despite the adrenaline singing in her veins. Whatever this place was, it wasn't just some black-market operation. That woman by the incense stand had eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. That man inspecting a dagger had— No. Focus. Tomás disappeared behind a curtained alcove. Quinn quickened her pace, sidestepping a group clustered around a bubbling cauldron. Voices rose in some language that scraped against her eardrums wrong. She reached the alcove just as the curtain fell back into place. Through the gap, she caught a glimpse of a back room lit by candles, shelves stacked with glass bottles. Three figures seated at a wooden table. "...blood samples from the last batch," Tomás was saying, his Spanish accent thickening with urgency. "They're accelerating the—" The curtain twitched. A hand shot out—long fingers wrapping around Quinn's forearm with impossible strength. She reacted on instinct, driving her elbow toward where a face should be. Hit cartilage. A hiss. The grip loosened. She lunged backward, drawing her sidearm in one smooth motion. The market's ambient noise died. Hundreds of faces turned toward her at once. Tomás emerged from the alcove, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the weird light. His warm brown eyes widened. "Detective." He swallowed visibly. "You shouldn't be here." Quinn kept her weapon trained between them. "You're coming in for questioning." A murmur rippled through the crowd. Something unseen brushed Quinn's ankle—cold and insubstantial. She resisted the urge to look down. Tomás wet his lips. "Not here. Not like this." He jerked his chin toward the alcove. "Five minutes. Then I'll go peacefully." Every instinct screamed trap. But the way he clutched at his medallion—the tension in his shoulders—it wasn't fear of arrest. It was fear for her. Quinn inhaled slow through her nose. The calculus changed. This wasn't just a chase anymore. She lowered her weapon an inch. "Two minutes," she lied. Tomás exhaled in what might have been relief or resignation. He held the curtain aside. The market's noise resurged the moment she stepped through, as if someone had turned up a radio dial. Inside, the scent of rosemary and something coppery filled the air. Maps covered the walls—London, but not as Quinn knew it. Streets that shouldn't connect formed spirals. The Thames branched into dozens of tributaries. And at the table sat two figures who turned toward her with smiles too wide for human faces. Quinn's finger twitched on her trigger. The chase had ended. The real hunt was just beginning.