Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFQ1S4JSQ9DWBBYSSK2945

Rain slid down Detective Harlow Quinn’s neck in a cold, insistent trickle. The collar of her coat was soaked through, the worn leather of her watch strap damp against her skin. Ahead, the suspect—a wiry figure in a dark hood—darted around the corner of a crumbling brick building, splashing through a puddle that gleamed with reflected neon. She adjusted her stride, pushing through the ache in her knees as she pounded after him. Soho at night was a study in contrasts. The slick pavement shimmered under green and red signs while the air smelled of wet asphalt and fried food. She caught the blur of the neon sign above The Raven’s Nest as she passed it, its green glow painting the raindrops in her vision a sickly hue. The suspect twisted down an alley, and she followed, her breath burning in her chest. He was fast. Too fast. Her polished boots skidded on a slick drain cover as she rounded another corner, nearly costing her her balance. The alley dead-ended at a rusted metal door hanging ajar. She drew her sidearm. Edging forward, she nudged the door open with her toe—hinges shrieking—and stepped into the skeletal remains of a derelict building. The floor groaned under her weight. A shadow flickered at the far end of the gutted space. She moved toward it, training her weapon ahead in a two-handed grip. “Metropolitan Police,” she called out. Her voice echoed. No response. A low rumble vibrated through the ground—something subterranean. The Underground. Her pulse jumped. They were near the tunnels. The suspect vanished down a set of makeshift stairs, little more than broken concrete slabs descending into darkness. She hesitated. Protocol dictated backup, radioing in, containment. But backup didn’t know about the patterns, the whispers she’d uncovered in case files, the way DS Morris’ name kept surfacing in reports with blacked-out details. She stepped down. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic—ozone? The walls here were old brick, slick with condensation. Water dripped in an uneven rhythm. The stairs ended at what looked like an abandoned Tube platform, the rails swallowed by shadow. There was no train waiting. Just a scattering of people in clusters, hooded, shrouded, their murmurs bouncing off the curved ceiling. A market. But not the kind you found above ground. She holstered her weapon, kept her hand near it. Booths lined the platform, makeshift stalls draped in dark fabric. Lanterns hung from rusted hooks, casting long, shifting shadows. Someone was selling vials of liquid that gleamed unnaturally under the dim light. Another stall displayed what looked like weapons—thin blades with carved handles, their edges shimmering as if dusted with powdered glass. Her suspect was nowhere. A man near the weapon stall turned his head slightly. Hispanic, late twenties, with sharp features and a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat. His dark eyes met hers for a half-second too long. Recognition? Warning? She moved toward him, casually, as if just browsing. Close up, she noted the scar along his forearm—jagged, old. The air between them stiffened. He tapped his fingers once, twice against the stall’s wooden frame. The vendor—a hunched figure with too many rings—flicked a glance at Quinn and then away, deliberately disinterested. “You’re not supposed to be here,” the man murmured in a low Spanish accent. “Yeah,” Quinn said, keeping her voice flat. “I get that a lot.” She let her gaze drift over the weapons. “You know the guy I was chasing? Hood. Fast.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “You should leave.” She turned slightly toward him, closing the distance. “Not until I find my suspect.” Something in his expression shifted. Wariness. He exhaled through his nose. “You won’t.” There was finality in his tone. Beyond them, the market’s murmur dipped, just for a moment. Eyes flicked in their direction. The hairs on her neck pricked. The man inclined his head toward the stairs—barely a movement. Go. She wasn’t a rookie. She had eighteen years in the Met and five before that in the army. But this place hummed with something she didn’t understand—something that made her sidearm feel absurdly insufficient. Quinn took a slow step back. The man didn’t watch her leave. She made it to the stairs before she heard the first footstep behind her.