Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF6Q4T8QYQ0847VF98PPGZ

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering maze of neon reflections and oily puddles. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted past the green glow of The Raven's Nest, her boots splashing through the gutter. Ahead, the suspect—a wiry figure in a soaked hoodie—darted around a corner with unnatural agility. Her breath came in sharp bursts, the damp air burning her lungs. Eighteen years on the force had taught her when a chase felt wrong. This one had that electric tingle up her spine, the same she'd felt three years ago with Morris. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist, pushing the memory aside. "Met Police! Stop!" Her command dissolved into the drumming rain. The figure vaulted over a stack of crates with ease, landing in a crouch before disappearing down a service alley. Quinn followed, her sharp jaw set. The alley narrowed to a dead end—empty except for a rusted maintenance hatch hanging open. A cold draft wafted up from the darkness below. She pulled her torch, the beam revealing rungs descending into the earth. The radio at her hip crackled. Backup was eight minutes out. Too long. She hesitated, fingertips brushing her sidearm. The hatch smelled of damp concrete and something else—ozone and burnt herbs. Unfamiliar. Wrong. Then a sound—a faint clang of metal from below. The suspect was moving. Quinn descended. The rungs ended in a cavernous space that shouldn't exist—an abandoned Tube station, its arched ceilings strung with flickering lanterns. Stalls lined the platforms, their awnings flapping in the subterranean breeze. The air hummed with low voices and the clink of glass. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers in the squad room. A place that didn't appear on any maps. Her suspect melted into the crowd. Quinn moved forward, hand resting near her holster. The vendors' eyes tracked her—some curious, others hostile. A woman with too-sharp teeth smiled from behind a table of amber vials. "Lost, darling?" Quinn ignored her, scanning the crowd. There—by the far platform. The hooded figure slipped behind a curtain. She followed, pushing past a group haggling over what looked like a human finger bone. The curtain led to a narrower tunnel, the walls slick with condensation. The sound of footsteps echoed ahead. Then—a dead end. The tunnel opened into a circular chamber where her suspect stood waiting, hood now lowered. Not a suspect. Tomás Herrera leaned against the damp brickwork, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the dim light. The scar along his forearm stood pale against his olive skin. "You shouldn't be here, Detective." His Spanish accent curled around the words. Quinn's fingers twitched. "Herrera. You're a hard man to find." "For good reason." He pushed off the wall. "This isn't your world." She stepped closer. "Tell me about the bodies in Whitechapel. The ones with the—" "Bite marks?" He laughed, bitter. "You think this is some gang war? Look around you." A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Too tall. Too still. Quinn drew her weapon. "Enough games." Tomás sighed. "Put that away before you attract the wrong attention." The air thickened. The lanterns flickered. Somewhere in the market, glass shattered. Tomás grabbed her wrist, his grip firm. "If you want answers about Morris, come with me. Now." Her pulse spiked at her partner's name. Another sound—a wet, clicking noise from the tunnel behind them. Quinn made her choice. She holstered the gun. Tomás pulled her through a hidden door in the brickwork, sealing it just as something heavy slammed against the other side. In the darkness, his breath was warm against her ear. "Welcome to the real London." The door shuddered. Quinn exhaled. The chase wasn't over. It had only just begun.