Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQQSP22DY13GG74KCR5TAQ

The rain battered Detective Quinn's face as she ran, her strides eating up the pavement. She'd been tailing the hooded figure for blocks, using all her stealth to keep a discreet distance, when the suspect made a sudden sprint. Her breath formed puffs of steam in the cold air. The figure's hood blew back, revealing dark hair flowing behind them. Tomás Herrera. It had to be him. He'd used a similar hoodie as a disguise before. Quinn picked up her pace. Under the orange glow of a streetlight, Tomás's foot struck something, and he stumbled. Quinn closed the gap, confident she'd apprehend him this time. Tomás weaved between parked cars and disappeared down an alley between two buildings. Quinn followed, her boots splashing through puddles. The alley was a tight squeeze, lined with wheely bins, their lids clattering in the wind. A figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the passage. Quinn recognised the watchful demeanor of her Confidential Human Source, Victor; he raised a hand to his temple in a gesture indicating Quinn's target was nearby. Victor rushed to meet her. "Quinn—here." His gravelly voice filled the alley. "Where?" she panted, slowing to a stop, senses straining. "Other end. He—" Footsteps splashed from somewhere behind the nearby buildings. Quinn darted past Victor, towards the dying echo. She peeked around the corner, squinting against the pouring rain. An opening, an entrance to the Underground. Ducking inside, the station was abandoned, the ticket offices boarded up. Tomás's footsteps receded down one of the gantries. Quinn chased after him, boots clicking on the concrete. The wind whistled through the station. Suddenly, a new sound – a low hum that vibrated the floor under Quinn's boots. A train? But this station had been out of service for years. Quinn rushed down the stairs, reaching the platform in time to see the tubes of an old escalator shuddering into life, a silent invitation to the depths. She stepped onto the groaning stairs, riding them down as they rumbled into the ground. The escalator deposited her in a wide, vaulted tunnel. The low hum now sounded like voices. Tomás dashed into the tunnel ahead, vanishing in the darkness. Quinn entered the tunnel, straining to see. The illumination source was spectral, as if the walls themselves were emitting a faint glow. "Herrera!" she called out. Her voice boomed off the curved walls, the echo ricocheting down the tunnel. No response. The ambient light grew stronger the further she advanced. The walls took shape in the luminescence. They were decorated with faded travel posters, peeling advertisements for old cigarette brands, and whited-out graffiti, revealing a hidden layer of spray paint underneath. The floor was packed dirt, littered with paper and rubbish. Suspicious crates and boxes comprised islands in a sea of refuse. Some stalls and merchants here were legitimate, but many more sold arcane or illegal goods under the table. Quinn slowed to a cautious walk, her eyes scanning the market stalls for her suspect. She moved past a table stacked with caged animals, their eyes glowing in the dark. The vendor, a cloaked figure in rags, cackled at her, a chilling sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. On her left, a candlelit stall offered bottled remedies—potions, labelled in a language Quinn didn't recognise. A lanky figure loitered nearby, browsing the mysterious wares. Further on, an elderly man in a threadbare coat sat behind a spread of glowing crystals. He studied Quinn with yellow eyes that didn't seem to blink. She shuddered, looking away. She took a sharp breath at the sight of what appeared to be a pair of angels standing at the far end of the tunnel, haloed in an ethereal light. Not all angels were benevolent, a fact she kept top of mind as a detective. They faced one another, their wings folded, their eyes closed as if in prayer or meditation. Quinn skirted the busy stalls, listening for hints of Tomás's whereabouts. The voices and commotion masked any sounds of his movement. Her watch's luminous dial indicated it was approaching 2 AM. At the next full moon, this market would vanish, along with Quinn's suspect. "Where are you, you son of a bitch?" Quinn muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Ahead, the central tunnel opened up into a wide space, an abandoned tube junction. The vendors appeared sparser here, the traffic diminished. Above the sellers' voices, she could make out music: dubstep, with heavy, deep bass. Quinn followed the pulsing rhythms to the source, a DJ booth set up in an alcove. The DJ's shadow danced against the wall, cast by the blue glow of lasers crisscrossing his deck. Tomás was nowhere in sight. She checked behind the DJ booth, where a business was set up in the old concourse selling what Quinn assumed were enchanted tokens. "Evening. Care for a free sample?" The seller's voice startled her. Quinn didn't even have time to turn and look at him. "I've had my fill of samples for one night, thank you," she said, her eyes still scanning the crowd. "Suit yourself." That pulsing beat could disorient even the most experienced raver. Anyone down here in this rabbit warren of a market was probably flying to a trance or worse; substances she'd encountered way too often. She kept to the outer ring of the stalls, her eyes searching for movement, for any sign of the paramedic. "You know what your problem is, dearie?" Quinn ignored the seller behind the stall, her eyes scanning the tunnels, willing them to reveal her prey. "You're too straight to enjoy anything in life. That's your problem." She groaned and began to turn in frustration. Quinn pivoted to find her speech cut short, the words dying in her throat.